


Saltwater Room

by RoeOcean



Category: youtube - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Stranded on an Island, like Castaway, romantic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-07
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2018-08-07 05:19:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7702261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RoeOcean/pseuds/RoeOcean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Christmas vacation, and you're on your way to Tahiti for some well deserved R&R. Markiplier, Michael Jones, and NicoB happen to be on the same flight as yours! But on the way across the Pacific, a terrible storm wrecks havoc on the plane, and it's all you can do to fight for your life! </p><p>The next morning, you wash up on the shore of an uncharted island, along with 3 other people you never expected to meet, let alone survive with for the next few... however long it takes for you to be rescued. </p><p>The four of you band together, and decide you'll do whatever it takes to make it off the island alive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You step off the plane, gratefully stretching your legs after your flight. You follow a thin trickle of people up the jet bridge, checking your phone as you jog slightly to get ahead of a few slow movers. There’s about an hour and a half until your next flight, so you have plenty of time to get to your gate. You smile. Maybe you’ll have some time to catch up on your YouTube queue while you wait.

You’ve brought your computer and a pair of headphones, and the San Francisco airport has free Wi-Fi, so you should be able to get at least some entertainment out of your favorite gaming personalities before you board the plane to Brisbane, Australia. You sigh. It’s going to be a long flight. Maybe you could buy some Wi-Fi points en route? You have a thick book to read too, but it would be so nice to spend the hours in the sky vicariously playing along with Markiplier, the Achievement Hunters ((specifically Michael Jones)), and NicoB as make their way through various games. You haven’t had a lot of time lately to devote to your favorite boys, so perhaps the length of the plane ride could be a blessing and not a horrible, butt-numbing curse.

You consider your options as you enter the airport proper. Your backpack bounces on your shoulders and you can hear faint squeaks as you roll a small suitcase behind you. You don’t have very far to walk to get to your next gate, but you might as well make your way over there now so that you have as much time as possible to enjoy YouTube before the airline makes you shell out money for some precious Wi-Fi. You head over to the gate, keeping a brisk pace. You pass several kiosks and restaurants on your way down the large, sun-filled halls, but you hardly glance at them, neither food nor magazines on your mind. Images of Mark, Michael, and Nico swim behind your eyes, and as your legs direct you on auto-pilot, you allow yourself to daydream a little.

‘They’re all so great and fun,’ you think to yourself, ‘How awesome is it that I get to enjoy their company essentially for free on a daily basis? Well, maybe not their actual presence, but still, it’s easy to imagine being right there with them as they play through whatever game they want. But man, I really wish I could meet and play with them in person…’  
They all have such different play styles and genres that they specialize in, but there’s one thing above all else that you really appreciate about all three of them: their commitment to their audiences. 

You can’t count how many times they’ve all done videos gushing about their immense appreciation for their fans, and it makes you tear up just a bit thinking about it sometimes. You love how they speak directly to the masses who so fervently watch them, how they address their commentary to subscribers with the same passion and warmth as they would real friends. In fact, perhaps it goes a bit deeper than that, especially for Mark and Nico. You aren’t exactly sure how to put it into words, but you think that, because Mark and Nico record alone a lot, they bare their souls more often. They’re more open, and more honest in their observations because they are alone, and they don’t have to worry about judgement from another person in the moment. They may be working, and putting on a show, but sometimes there are real, raw moments during the Let’s Plays where they show their truest selves. They slip up sometimes and give the camera, and thus their audience, intimate details about their lives; not their home addresses or anything, nothing in that kind of vein, but their most personal thoughts, beliefs, and tiny anecdotes that they remember, that have shaped who they are and how they’ll proceed through life in the future. 

It lets you see inside of them, inside their psyches, small glimpses into their lives that you otherwise wouldn’t have. And that’s the kind of thing that you treasure about Mark and Nico the most. Those are the brief moments where they touch your heart, even if you can’t reciprocate. It feels like friendship. And even though they have no idea who you are, you can pretend that they do. You can talk back to the computer screen, answer their questions, laugh at their jokes, and criticize them when they make an obvious mistake, even if they can’t hear you. It’s kind of pathetic, now that you think about it, but… you’re a lonely person.

Sure, you have real friends, but you don’t share your innermost thoughts and feelings with them, don’t go around spouting your deepest, darkest dreams and fears. That would make you way too vulnerable. You don’t like feeling like that, and you don’t like divulging all of your dirty little secrets. It would be a pain and a burden to the people who heard them, and besides, who would even want to listen to you in the first place? Your therapist, maybe, but not your friends and family. With Mark and Nico, you don’t have to speak at all. They do all the talking, and you’re content to sit back and listen. It doesn’t matter that they’re speaking to thousands ((millions, in Mark’s case)) of people around the globe. They make you feel like you’re the only person in the world who matters.

With Michael it’s a bit different, because he regularly plays with a large cast of zany characters and more often than not he has someone else in the room who’s watching him, so he can’t be as bold as Mark and Nico, can’t be as soft and unguarded while he’s recording. You like his angry, sarcastic persona that he puts on while he’s with his boys, but you wish that he would strike out on his own, too, like Ray did. You used to enjoy Rage Quit so much, because that series was all about Michael. His hard, ego-driven voice shouting distinctly into your ear, coming up with all kinds of clever swears as he frequently drove himself into a frothy frenzy, and then his triumph or equally amusing defeat. No one else, no Gavin, Geoff, Jack, or whoever else butting in to make a snarky, toxic comment. Those were the days. You still enjoy everything Michael does, but you wish he would get more focus on the channel. Or better yet, start his own channel. Then perhaps he could feel more like a friend and less like a person you just watch when you’re bored. You have no idea why he tolerates Gavin as much as he does…

Your thoughts drift to the rest of the Achievement Hunters briefly, praising Ryan first and foremost, and then shrugging past the rest of them in favor of Meg, who isn’t an Achievement Hunter, but is quite brilliant, pretty, and hilarious…and, bizarrely, still dating that sad British weasel.

You continue this train of thought as you stroll up to your gate. It’s quite crowded, which is sort of unusual, because there’s still plenty of time before the flight attendants call the boarding groups. You scan the packed gate for an outlet to plug your computer into. Might as well charge it up while you’re browsing through YouTube. You hope that the wifi is fast enough to afford you 720 or even 1080p. You’re something of a quality snob. Besides, who would want to watch one of Markiplier’s videos without a crystal-clear view of his handsome face in the corner? You used to be put off by this practice, a trend you think PewDiePie started, but you have to admit, Mark Fischbach is one beautiful man. You like glancing at the corner of the video every now and again to gaze dreamily at him. It’s not even awkward, because he probably knows that people do it anyway. I mean, come on, right? And even if he doesn’t know, it’s not like he can catch you staring!

As cramped as it is at the gate, you finally manage to find a free outlet on an enormous concrete pillar right in the middle of everything, which you quickly and gratefully claim as your own. You slip off your backpack, brace your small suitcase against your seat, and begin digging through your backpack’s stuffed contents. Eventually you find your computer amidst the mass of other crap, and you plop yourself into your chair with a little bounce and a growing smile. You plug your computer in and prepare to go to town. The wifi is relatively speedy, luckily for you, and you have no problem navigating to your YouTube queue. There’s somewhat of a backlog because you’ve been busy lately with schoolwork, but now that it’s Christmas vacation you should be able to catch up with your all of your favorites. You take out a pair of earbuds, untangle them hastily, and put them on.

You wonder who you should start watching first. Who are you in the mood for? Hm. It looks like Nico’s continuing with his slog through the entire Kingdom Hearts series. You’re enjoying KH a lot, but at this point it’s kind of wearisome. You wish that Persona 5 would come out already! You can hardly wait for him to play through that. You definitely have time for one of Nico’s videos, but his are kind of a commitment, often clocking in at over an hour. You’ll think about it. Meanwhile, you scroll to see who else is on the menu. 

It looks like Mark’s been playing a bunch of VR games recently. You grin. It’s been very exciting seeing this new gaming medium come into being! And it seems like Mark’s been having a blast with it. You scroll some more, pausing to check video titles and previews. Hmm, Mark’s also been playing horror games. Well, it’s kind of what he’s known for, so you can’t begrudge him that. You don’t mind them, per se, but you wish that so many of them weren’t rendered as first person only. The wobbly motions of the camera make you nauseated. It’s like motion-sickness, and you hate it. There’s also a few of his very popular series Subnautica, but you move on. Subnautica is also first person, and it also makes you too motion-sick if you watch for very long. 

Interspersed with Markiplier’s and NicoB’s videos are the Achievement Hunter lads. You skip any that don’t feature Michael in the title, summary, or video preview. As you’re nearing the dregs of your queue, you spot something that makes your heart do a little flip. There are two somethings, actually: a Rage Quit and a Play Pals! The Play Pals has a cartoon Michael frowning intensely as Ryan’s photo-shopped head on a cartoon Gavin’s torso displays mad, sparkling eyes and a closed-lipped smile. You almost squeal in delight. Instead, you press your hands to your cheeks and wiggle in your seat a little bit, beaming. The Rage Quit is all Michael. You’re not sure what game he’s enduring, but you know you’re going to be having fun while he lobs angry quips at the gameplay, his character, and of course, himself. You click on the RQ and begin watching. 

It’s a heavenly but short ten minutes of Michael barely keeping it together as he furiously screams his way through a session of a bunch of gooey pixels all melting and bumping into each other. It’s mesmerizing to watch, and Michael’s rough voice fills you with joy and a quiet sense of nostalgia. After the video, you sit back and contemplate how long it’s been since he’s done one of these. He hasn’t had his own series in a while, and it’s awesome that he still releases RQ. You think it’s because, since he’s been married, he’s not as… angry as he used to be. He can’t drum up that kind of violent energy in himself because… well, you’re not exactly sure what Lindsay has to do with it. You don’t really want to think about it. It’s great that he and Lindsay are so happy together, but… hm. You can’t finish the thought. Or rather, you don’t want to finish the thought.

Ruminating on that subject puts off your appetite for YouTube, at least for now. You lean back against your seat, take out your earbuds, and survey the crowd. It seems as though it’s only grown larger. You wonder why.

You’re facing the absolutely gigantic windows that allow quite a view of the airport and the surrounding tarmacs. You see planes taking off, taxiing in, and simply standing still at their gates, ready and waiting. Behind it all are the dry rolling hills of the San Francisco landscape, dotted across the expanse with miniscule homes and powerlines. You admire the scene for a bit, and then switch to watching ground control move about in their reflective vests, waving their bright orange sticks. You’re so high above them, they look like little dolls. You can feel your small smile, or what was left of it, fade. Your vision gradually mists, and your eyes become dewy at the corners. It seems as though all you’ve been doing lately is observing people through glass, a very long distance away. There’s a gap, somewhere. A connection you can’t quite close.

You turn away from the windows, and focus instead on the desk next to the boarding group lines. There are already several people standing in line, waiting for their group to be called. You ignore them. It’s way too early to be concerned with that. Besides, you’re in business class, so you’d be getting on board close to the front of the line anyway. Your mom was kind enough to spend a little extra and grant you a luxurious, private seat. You’re grateful for that, and also curious as to what amenities will be available. You’ve been in business class before, but not on an international flight, so you’re hoping that the perks will be good. 

You try to read the monitor above the attendants’ desk, but you’re too far away to see it clearly. Also, the pillar that you plugged your computer into is in the way. You think you can make out a sun icon, indicating that the weather is good, but you’d like to know if the flight is on time or not. There's always the FlightView app on your phone, but you might as well stretch your legs while you can! You'll be sitting down for so many hours you're sure your butt will want to fall off by the end. You decide to go check the monitor out. You ask the lady sitting next to you to watch your things, which she agrees to, and then you head off towards the desk.

On your way there, you think briefly that you’re glad you’re on a direct flight to Brisbane from here. Getting to the San Francisco airport was so tiring, and now you have to spend several more hours in the air. Not that you mind flying very much, but it can be taxing when you’re doing it for so long, even if you are going to be in business class. You comfort yourself with the thought that, by this time tomorrow, you’d be with your family, albeit on another plane, to Tahiti. You definitely deserve a vacation after all the hard work you’ve done this past semester.

There are two flight attendants at the desk who are helping some passengers with their passports. You move off to the side so that people don’t think you’re in line, and read the monitor. Sunny, clear skies, a good indication that the flight might be early. There’s a small thundercloud icon hovering in the corner, signifying a chance of rain, but it doesn’t look bad. The flight’s on time, which is another great sign. Looks like you don’t have anything to worry about. 

You turn around to head back to your seat, and in the process of doing so you have an unobstructed view of the boarding group lines. There, at the front of group 1, surrounded by a gaggle of people, is a beautiful man with a shock of red hair, square glasses sitting firmly on his nose, and a dazzling smile. You’re frozen in place, and your jaw drops.

“N-no way…” you breathe, barely above a whisper, “Th-that can’t be… Markiplier?”

He must have sensed you staring, because his head swivels around to your direction, and suddenly his gaze locks onto yours. He winks.


	2. DR Discussion

You turn away immediately, hiding your face behind one hand. You can feel heat creep up your neck, cheeks blossoming like bright red carnations. You hurry back to your seat, never glancing behind you. ‘That wink couldn’t have been for me,’ your brain stutters, ‘Also that’s probably just a Markiplier lookalike, not the real guy! For gods’ sake, pull yourself together.’ 

Once you’re back in your seat, there’s no way to properly view the boarding group lines, due to the pillar that blocks your line of sight. You silently praise it for being such a big, strong, solid pillar. After a few minutes, you calm down. You’re pretty sure now that the man you saw is definitely not Markiplier. What would he be doing here, anyway, in San Francisco? He lives in LA, and LAX is a perfectly acceptable airport to fly out of, to other countries! And hey, that reminds you, why, in the first place, would he be taking a plane to Australia? Mark didn’t really do vacations, unless he was going to a convention or something. And he’d tell his subscriber base that he’d be doing this! You hadn’t heard anything about this on your favorite social media sites… although you have been out of the loop for a while, because you’ve been so focused on school… hm. 

You violently resist the urge to peek around the pillar again and instead take your laptop out of your bag. You open Twitter, which is the quickest and easiest place to check if Mark is taking a trip or brief hiatus. 

Right at the top of his Twitter page, there is something that’s been uploaded barely five minutes ago. It’s a photo, a low-angle close-up of Mark and a few googly-eyed fans. They are all making fat-chin faces. You stifle giggles. But then you see the caption. You gasp and gape.

‘Gonna board soon! Fellow passengers lookin’ fabulous!’ 

A few tweets below that, you see that he’s headed to Melbourne for a secret project. A film, perhaps? He’s flying to Brisbane first, though, for reasons you can’t fathom. He doesn’t give anything away.

‘Can’t tell you all the deets now, but it’s something super cool x 1000!!’ 

“Oh my god,” you whisper. There’s more you could say, but really, what else captures the essence of total shock? Shock… and something else. Hope, maybe, that you’ll be able to speak to one of your idols face to face. Or at least take a quick picture with him and try not to look like an idiot as you gawk at him like the rest of his fans. A number of them have already surrounded him and probably fulfilled their dearest wish: just being near him.

You hardly dare to believe it. There’s suddenly a million butterflies flitting around your stomach, and your heart is thudding in your throat. You desperately want to glimpse him again, just to confirm that he’s actually here and that he’s real, but your nerves prevent you from doing anything more than bouncing your knees. You’re frozen, inactive. Your hands are hovering above the keyboard, bracing for something, but you don’t know what. 

You hear a peal of laughter from around the pillar, and you jolt upright. It’s Mark’s laugh. You’d recognize it anywhere, whether online or in person. That sound births a feeling that you’ve always associated with him. Happiness bubbles up through your body, and a smile graces your lips. Mark’s laugh is so full of joy and energy, it’s practically life itself. If he’s happy, you’re happy. You relax, just a little bit. And you realize something. 

It’s him. It’s really him. 

“I want to meet him.” You surprise yourself by declaring these words aloud. The people around you pause in their conversations, glance at you with quizzical looks, then go back to talking with their friends and families. You don’t care. Your family is waiting for you on the other side of the world, but Mark is here, right now, and he’s the only person you want to talk to. In this brief moment of confidence, your nerves propel you forward, anxiety blending with a surge of excitement, adrenaline buzzing through your blood. You’re going to do this. You’re going to meet the Markiplier, maybe get him to sign your arm or your forehead or something, you’re going to—ah shit! 

Your ankle hits a power cord and you trip, landing hard. Luckily, you’re somewhat versed in the art of falling, and your palms smack the floor first, allowing you to bend your elbows and brace your weight against the full brunt of the impact. One of your legs stretches out behind you, and your knee supports the other, pushing your hips up and your butt out. You look like you’ve just decided to do a series of push-ups in the middle of the packed gate. 

“Ack,” you grumble, your head down and the rush of fluttery elation screeching to a halt. What are you thinking, what are you doing? You can’t just expect to go up to Markiplier and get a few minutes alone with him! You’re no one special! 

You glance aside, and you find that you’ve come around the pillar enough to see an ever-growing group of people gathered around the popular YouTuber. You can’t even make out his feet, that’s how smothered he is. The crowd has swallowed him. 

You can feel your mouth sink into a frown, along with your brow. Even though he doesn’t know you, it still stings that you won’t be able to get a selfie or an autograph. You don’t want to bother him while he’s on the plane. 

“So much for that,” you mumble aloud, “I’ll be lucky if I see him again online, let alone in person.” 

You sigh, and instead of making a move to get up, you’re about to arrange yourself in a sitting position when a hand tentatively touches your shoulder. 

“Um, excuse me, I’m so sorry,” a deep, masculine voice encroaches on your darkening mood. “I warned you that there was a cord there, but you must not have heard me…” 

You don’t even want to look at him, you’re feeling so bitter, but you stand up and brush off your shorts, pretending that they’re covered in more dust than they actually are. You turn around, faking a smile and clasping your hands behind you. There’s a very tall guy sitting not far from where you tripped. He didn’t even have to stand up to tap on your shoulder. His laptop connects to the cord that brought about your doom. He looks slightly concerned, and a little bit embarrassed, though whether that’s for you or himself it’s not entirely clear. He scratches the back of his short, chestnut-colored hair awkwardly, and then slowly pushes his glasses up his nose. He looks older than you by a few years, though at the same time he has a bit of a round, boyish face. Probably in his late twenties, you’d say. 28, maybe? You don’t know. His polo shirt is nice, neat, and a pretty light pink color. He has a small pin on his collar. It shines when he shifts in his chair. You admire this for a second, trying to see what the pin is, then realize that he’s still looking at you. You should say something. 

You put on a high, sweet tone and say, “Oh, it’s not a problem! My fault, really, for not noticing it! I’ll be going back to my seat now.” 

His next words stall you. “Really sorry about it, though. I know I shouldn’t have plugged it in there, I said to myself that it’s a hazard waiting to happen, and well, what do you know, I was right.” 

You’d already pivoted your body to bolt back to your bags, but you think you recognize his voice from somewhere. You turn slightly and blink at him. He stares at you. His long, lean legs cross and he sits up a bit straighter. He has hunched shoulders, you realize, probably from sitting at a desk for several hours a day. 

“Ummm... ” he says, and it looks like he’s getting a bit flustered now. He glances at the pillar behind you, near the bottom. 

You don’t say anything. You’re still trying to place his voice. There’s something so familiar about it. It’s on the tip of your tongue. 

“Could you, yeah, could you pull the cord from the outlet and bring it over here? Since you’re already standing there, it would be helpful.” 

You respond without thinking. “Sure.” You’re not about to not be polite, even if you’re questioning why he doesn’t just get up and retrieve his own damn cord. No, that’s not how you roll, even if this guy’s power cord tripped you up and made you lose confidence on your quest to behold Markiplier’s beauty. Besides, you’re still trying to settle on why you think you know this person. 

You bend over from the waist, gently coax the plug out of the pillar, and straighten up. You step over to the dude, who’s not five feet away from you, wrapping the cord up as you go. He’s watching you carefully. You can see why you tripped: the cord is quite strong, and almost unnoticeable against the gate’s thin carpeting. Even if he did call out to you, you probably wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself in time. Wow, was your intent to reach Markiplier really that powerful, to have such a hold on you? You roll your eyes. Mark usually drives you to distraction anyway. The man’s charm is immense. It’s like a magnet. But you’d better be more vigilant from now on. No more tripping over stupid power cords. 

Once you’ve rolled up the cord into a nice little bundle, you hand it to the guy, who seems appreciative of your extra effort to make it neat. 

“Thanks,” he says, and smiles up at you. Even when he’s sitting down, his shoulders are almost on the same plane as your waist. Geez this dude is tall. 

You nod, not seeing the need for more talk between the two of you. You still haven’t landed on where you’ve heard him before, but you decide you don’t particularly care at this point. It’s time for more YouTube, and possibly some snacks. You have chips and sandwiches in your backpack.

You’re about to head back to your chair again, when something catches your attention out of the corner of your eye. This guy is on YouTube as well! You pause for a second, faintly interested in his queue. He looks like he belongs in the nerd category ((not that a person’s appearance is the most accurate way to judge their character, but whatever)), and he’s right around the age where he should be involved with let’s playing and other assorted video game community things. Does he know that Markiplier is standing, like, right over there? Maybe you two could commiserate that you’re both so cut off from one of the gaming gods.

He doesn’t seem to have noticed that you’re hovering over his shoulder. Or maybe he’s just trying his hardest to ignore you. Well, perhaps he’s not trying at all. You watch his fingers as they type. He’s not on his subscription page, he’s on the… upload page? Your curiosity grows from faint to keen in a matter of microseconds. A lot of people who have channels on YouTube only watch stuff. While it’s not difficult to find a channel that uploads videos, it’s not that common to find someone who creates good content consistently and in large quantities. You’ve dabbled in the art of creation yourself, but you don’t have a lot of subscribers. Certainly not compared to your idols. It takes so much time and effort to make a single video! You haven’t finished one in weeks, maybe months. You kind of want to get back into it. Interaction, instead of passive, vicarious enjoyment of another person’s work. However, school has been more important, for a number of reasons. 

You’re brought out of your musings by a few quiet clicks of the mousepad. It looks like he’s checking pre-scheduled uploads. The files must be on a different computer. You squint, trying to read the deets. He’s scrolling moderately quickly through them, but you spy a few things. Wow, damn, those are some long vids! An hour here, an hour and twenty minutes there… who would put these up, let alone watch them? As the previews fly by, you notice a pattern. They’re all Let’s Plays. Or, well, most of them are. Not speed-runs, either, just lengthy sections of play-by-play vidya gams. You glimpse a title for a reaction video that seems to be hype for a Persona 5 update. 

Suddenly, it hits you full on who this person is. 

‘N-Nico! NicoB!’ your brain screams. Fortunately, you do not repeat the revelation out loud. Besides the fact that you’d probably damage some people’s eardrums, you do not want to let him know that you’re a fan. It would most likely become super awkward super quickly. Well, more awkward than it already is!

You take a step back, and you twitch or something, because Nico glances up at you again, and pales. 

“Oh! You’re, you’re still here?” He doesn’t look happy, but he’s not angry, either. More surprised than anything. His eyes have widened to an alarming size, which would be comical if you weren’t struggling to come up with something intelligent to say.

“Yeah,” you manage, crossing your arms tightly and canting your hips to the side, “I was just, uh…” 

You don’t leave your sentence trailing for long. You cast around for an excuse, any excuse at all, and one shines right in your eyes, thanks to the sunny beams pouring in through the windows. It’s the pin on his collar, and you recognize it at once. 

“That’s a cool Monokuma pin!” you blurt out, pointing at it as if he didn’t know it was there. Idiot, he pinned it on his shirt himself. 

“Ah.” Nico attempts to look down at it, but it’s too high on the collar for him to see. He realizes his mistake and quickly looks back up, masking his embarrassment with a shy smile. “Thank you. Are you a fan—” 

At the suggestion of these words, you panic and vehemently exclaim, “No!” 

He stops, and seems taken aback for a moment. A passing wave of worry washes over his face before it smooths out again, though this time instead of a smile he’s rearranged his features into something cool, uninvolved. You curse yourself. He thinks you’re a weirdo now! Or, at least, he thinks you’re someone who’s anti-Dangan Ronpa. He was probably going to ask if you are a fan of the DR franchise, not of him specifically! 

You try to salvage the situation. You place one of your hands on your heart, while your other arm gives an exaggerated shrug, and explain, “I-I mean, yes! I am a fan, but not of Monokuma himself, hahaha… I like protagonist-oriented characters better. Guys like Naegi, and, and, you know, Hajime.”

Nico’s face brightens. Good, good, you’re safe. You’re happy to leave the conversation as it is, and return to your seat, but Nico doesn’t seem as keen to get rid of you. 

“So you’ve played SDR2? Oh my god, that game was so awesome. I can’t wait for the next one, have you heard about that? It’s supposed to be completely separate from the rest of the series, new characters and so on, but I’ll be damned if they aren’t going to stick Junko’s ass in it somehow.” 

He’s eager now, grinning at you and inviting your opinion with shining eyes. You don’t know what to do. On the one hand, talking about this with him would be really cool! You’ve watched all of his play-throughs of the DR games in the series, laughed and despaired along with his reaction videos to the anime that had aired this past summer. On the other hand… you don’t know if you can continue talking with him without revealing that you’re a fan of his. You don’t want to lie to him, but you also don’t want him to know. People act… differently when they’re around fans, even if they don’t mean to. Just look at how much fame has changed Mark and Michael. They definitely put on a show, their actor persona, but it’s not just for the fans. It’s for their own protection, too. It pays to be cautious, of course, but. 

You don’t want to be kept at a distance. You don’t want to be just another fan. You want to be a friend. Maybe not just another friend, either. Something…more. 

You focus again on Nico. You love the man behind ((beyond?)) the screen just as much as you adore the DR cast of characters. After finishing his DR series, you had just continued watching him, and subsequently enjoyed more video games that you’d never played or sometimes never even heard of before. He is a great let’s player, and he deserves more fans. 

Getting to experience those video games with him, theorizing who is behind the murders, solving the clues before the mysteries unfold ((he is such a smart guy)) and laughing out loud as he ad-libs lines, had formed an odd bond between the two of you. Or, well, a one-way bond. It was a… a friendship. Yes, you could call it that. A friendship that you cherish, but that he doesn’t know exists. It isn’t as if you’re a stalker or anything, and you never expect to have your feelings reciprocated in any shape or form, but you like to pretend that he cares. And he does, in a way. It’s showcased whenever he makes videos addressing the mass of picky penguins, his cute name for his subscribers. He tells everyone how much he loves them, and how he is so grateful for each and every one of them. Hearing him say that makes your heart glow with love in a ‘right back atcha’ kinda way, but it also makes your chest ache. Because if everyone’s special, then no one is.  
All of this passes through your mind in an instant, vague thoughts with blunt edges, warring with your desire to stay, or to flee.

Nico’s waiting for your answer. You sense the gleam dull a little, fading ever so slightly. He’s afraid that he’s pushed you away? Or maybe he’s beginning to lose interest. He fears that he’s made a mistake, engaging with you. His eyes cut away, back to his laptop, then flicker to you. He shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. 

You decide you want this. You want to take a chance, to speak to this person who you might never get a chance to see again, at least in real life. Since you can’t meet Markiplier now, you might as well not throw away your shot on another favorite of yours! You open your mouth. 

“I loved SDR2! I thought it was better than the first one, honestly. They gave the characters so much more depth, and the setting was cool. It’s kind of amazing that they basically redid the same concept, but kept it fresh and interesting. Plus, Komaeda could’ve been a stereotypical example of a sick white-haired anime boy, but… I don’t know, I find him to be repulsive and I’m drawn to him at the same time.”  
The gleam comes back, brighter this time, you think, and he says, “Don’t get me started on Komaeda.” 

He pronounces the name incorrectly, as he usually does ((it’s Koh-my-duh, not Koh-may-duh)), but you don’t point that out. Even if you just pronounced it correctly. You literally just said his name. Anyway, you nod and smile, which seems to encourage Nico. Contrary to his previous statement, he starts on Komaeda. 

Nico rants for a good while on this subject, barely letting you get a word in edgewise. He closes his laptop after a few minutes, and pats the chair next to him, mumbling something about you possibly getting tired of standing for so long. You shake your head and say that you’ll be sitting for hours on the plane, but he shrugs and insists. 

So you sit, and he continues talking. You listen with authentic interest, injecting your own thoughts into the mix, which he either waves away or incorporates into his headcanons and expounds upon. You speak about your favorite moments, characters, and meander somehow into the heart-breaking deaths and class trials. You praise Junko, and Nico gives you such a look of loathing that you want to take the words back, but you push forward. 

You want to talk about his commentary style on his videos, but if you do so you’d give yourself away immediately. You catch yourself a few times, and they’re all close calls. But, as you go on speaking with him, you grow more and more comfortable with expressing your genuine feelings about the franchise, skirting around issues that Nico has with the games. If you addressed those, he’d definitely suspect you. He’s quite intelligent. While he listens intently, he’s just as concerned with making sure you know his opinions. 

Most of these you’ve heard of already, but it’s not that tiring pretending that you’re invested in them. And this time, you can actually watch him as he speaks! It’s kind of strange, actually, because you’re not used to associating his voice with his own face. Usually you don’t imagine him as anything when he’s chatting with his fans. And the rest of the time he’s playing various characters. You were perfectly content with not knowing what he looked like at all. He was a nebulous entity. All that mattered was his strategical gameplay and his jokes. 

That said, Nico isn’t bad looking! Not exactly your type, but hey, you’re attracted more to his wits and council of voices regardless. That’s what you became accustomed to first. When you observe his expressions and movements, he doesn’t have that many peculiar mannerisms, other than his eyebrows seemingly moving of their own free will. 

You both spend quite a while discussing the Dangan Ronpa series without branching off into any other marginally unrelated topic. It feels like barely any time has passed at all when a microphone crackles and a desk attendant begins calling out for boarding groups. 

“We’re now going ahead with SkyMiles Priority seating. Also, please come up to the gate if you have children under the age of two, or if you require extra assistance finding your seat on the plane.” ((the extra assistance part usually spoke politely, but directly, to people in wheelchairs, the otherwise infirm, and the elderly. You had once been unfortunate enough to get stuck behind a veteran of some war, and he wouldn’t shut up about how he deserved special treatment for his supposed heroic acts, committed decades ago. We get it, grandpa, you’re patriotic. Now move it or lose it.))

“Ah,” you say, and stand up. Nico looks at you, a question forming on his lips, but you’ve already dashed back to your bags. You’ve forgotten if you’re SkyMiles Priority or just average business class. 

You rummage through the smaller pocket on your backpack, pulling out a slightly crumpled ticket. Hm. You’re only business class. You board ahead of zone 1, but other than that, nothing special.

You glance up at Nico, who is watching you with curiosity. You give a small wave, and he does the same. You heft your backpack on your shoulders. A sense of understanding seems to dawn on him. With your little suitcase ready to roll, you stroll up to him once more, both bags in tow. 

“I have to get on the plane soon, but it was really fun talking with you! It’s not often that I get to commiserate with someone about DR.” 

Nico nods. “I had fun too! I… I’m kinda burnt out on DR discourse, to be honest, but it’s always cool to talk about in person. Usually I’m scrolling through hours of online comments, and most of them are really… uh… really idiotic.” 

You know exactly what he means, but you don’t know how to respond. He hadn’t said anything about his following on YouTube at all in the hour or so that you’d been talking, which just goes to show how humble of a man he is—or perhaps he doesn’t consider it significant enough to bring it up in casual conversation with a person he’s just met. Neither of you had exchanged any personal information outside of your opinions on Dangan Ronpa. You realize suddenly that you’re not even supposed to know his name. 

You decide to feign ignorance of his channel, but show sympathy. “Oh, um, yeah! Same. I mean, when I watched the anime, the fans were just bonkers. I—I watched it online. Sure, some of the comments are great, but the majority of it is just…schlock.”  
He nods again, slowly, pursing his lips in a thoughtful manner. “Well hey, if I see you on the plane, and you’ve got some more time to kill, we can… talk about some other series? Do you like Kingdom Hearts?” 

You’re momentarily mind-boggled that he would want to get to know you better. It must show on your face, because he opens his mouth, maybe to reassure you or apologize, but the intercom crackles again and he’s cut off. 

“Business class may begin boarding now.” 

You have to say something to him before you run off into the lap of luxury. You put on your best grin, clasp your hands near your heart, and declare, “I do like Kingdom Hearts.” 

With that, you spin in the direction of the boarding gate and walk off, leaving him with what you hope is eagerness to spiral into a daze of nerdy discussions about video games. As you pace farther away, you think you hear him express some frustration, and it’s only after you’re in line to board that you process what he’d said. 

“Shit, never got her name.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time, you get cozy in business class, and you meet Michael Jones. Is it possible for someone to love three people all at once? 
> 
> Yes, yes it is.


	3. Oh hey Mark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You freak out over Mark some more. You don't really do much else these days, tbh.

When you’re in line, you notice that Markiplier’s gone already. His fans are still hanging around where he had been, chatting amongst themselves. Some are beginning to drift away, back to their own gates. Some are peering with wild eyes into the harsh light of the jet bridge, where Mark presumably vanished from their sight. 

One girl is giggling with her friends, and you catch her saying, “Oh my god, I wish I was on this flight! Can you imagine being lucky enough to sit next to him!” Her friends agree. 

You smile at her suggestion. You consider yourself to be a little bit lucky. It happens with the smallest things. Sometimes you’ll find $10 bills on the ground when you’re short on cash. Other times you’ll be in the right place at the right time to catch a sale at a store you like, or get into your car before it starts pouring rain. Yes, you’re quite lucky when it comes to little things. Not really the big stuff. You’ve never won the lottery, and you’ve never appeared on a television show for some miraculous feat you’d accomplished. You don’t know if meeting two of your YouTube idols at the airport counts as a huge lucky event in your life if you’ll never be able to speak to one of them, and you’re not sure if the other one will have the inclination to talk to you again. 

He said he did, but you can’t confidently know that he won’t change his mind in the future. 

The line moves relatively quickly. Your shoulders are beginning to ache from the weight of your backpack. When you get to the front, the attendant scans your ticket, and you’re all set to go. You think about glancing behind you, to search for Nico’s face once more before the jet bridge gives you tunnel vision. You hadn’t asked where he’d be sitting, but you’re sure people in business class are allowed to roam around with as much, if not more, impunity as the coach class. Nico probably won’t be able to visit you even if he wanted to. The flight attendants would see to that. You would have to make an effort to find him yourself once you’re able. 

The line inside the jet bridge is slow, due to the people being moved about in wheelchairs. You inch forward minute by minute, passing the time by playing on your phone. You get a text from your mother saying that she’s excited to see you, and you reply with a similar sentiment. It’s going to be an amazing vacation, if seeing Mark and actually meeting Nico are any indication! 

Finally you’re at the end of the bridge, and one small step forward places you on the airplane. A flight attendant gestures for your ticket. He glances over it quickly, and a slight smile touches his lips. 

“Business class?”

You nod, clutching your rolling suitcase tightly. You can’t wait to get this heavy backpack off of you. 

“Right this way, miss.”

He directs you to the left, and you step foot inside the spacious first class accommodations.

The aisles are quite wide, so you have absolutely no trouble navigating your bulky backpack through yours. You could probably cartwheel down the aisles if you really wanted to. There are only two seats in each aisle: one on the left, and one on the right. Well, actually, the seats are more like lounge chairs, covered with faux leather and stuffed with what you assume is goose down. It’ll be nice to sit on one, you think, but it’ll still make your butt ache after a dozen hours in the air. They’re angled so that each person doesn’t have to make eye contact with each other, and so that there’s enough room to rearrange the cushions for sleeping. 

On your way to your seat, you pass people in assorted business suits, ladies and gentlemen alike, all pristine and elegant. They’re putting up their suitcases, making small talk with the other passengers, and kicking off their polished shoes. Some of them are already relaxing in their seats, attempting to push the buttons on the little television screens, which haven’t been fully activated yet. You watch them all out of the corners of your eyes with polite, detached interest. No sign of Markiplier, although him getting on board early doesn’t necessarily mean that he’s in first class. 

You come to a stop in front of your seat, and you think that you’re lucky to have a window. You bend down to peer outside for a second, but the jet bridge is blocking your view. Shaking your head, you sling your backpack off and push it into the compartment above you. It’s so big that you could climb in there yourself, and you briefly entertain the idea before discarding it. You gratefully roll your shoulders, rubbing them with the palms of your hands for good measure. Your wheeled suitcase is next. It’s not that heavy, but you have some trouble maneuvering it onto the seat. You do not notice that an errant keychain catches on the arm rest. As you attempt to dislodge the suitcase, a deep, silky voice calls out to you. 

“Hey there, need some help?” 

You recognize the owner of the voice immediately. 

A large hand appears at the arm rest, and you move aside quickly, practically jumping out of the way as a man slides the keychain free. You can barely breathe, let alone focus on the man’s actions. You stare at the floor, face half-hidden by your hair. From your periphery, you see that the man is reaching towards you, and it’s all you can do to keep from falling into his embrace…

“Here, I can put that up for you, if you want.” 

He wants to help you with the suitcase. A good Samaritan. 

“O-of course! Please,” you say, somehow managing to speak without stuttering too much. You’re rooted on the spot, but you hand your luggage over to him. The tips of your fingers brush against his. You feel a small thrill shoot up your spine. It’s enough to give you goosebumps. Luckily it’s kind of cool in the cabin, so maybe he won’t notice that much. 

“I bet you could do this yourself, but I’m always happy to help,” he’s saying, and you glance up just in time to see the muscles of his biceps work as he lifts the luggage. Your heart redoubles its beats, and it’s a miracle you can hear him over the pulsating rhythm. A small sliver of skin shows briefly around his middle as his t-shirt moves with his arms, giving you a tantalizing glimpse of stomach. You swallow audibly. There’s a black trail of coarse hair that leads down to…

“Wow! That was easy,” Mark tells you, grinning. You can’t look at him. His beauty is too astounding. It would probably melt your eyes. So you’re stuck, fidgeting in place while he casts around for something to say. Presumably. 

Perhaps he was expecting a reply, but when you don’t say anything, he continues with, “I’m sitting in the seat ahead of you, so if I can just squeeze past—”  
You don’t move, but he hasn’t even finished his sentence before he’s gliding up the aisle, lightly brushing your side, and this time the thrill that went up your spine earlier shoots directly to your groin. 

‘Get a grip!’ your brain screams. 

‘How can I do that when the most handsome man in the world is right there!’ you yell back.

‘I concede the point, but don’t drool on him, okay?! You need to be cool if you wanna talk to him!’ 

‘Talk to him! I can hardly breathe around him!’ 

‘You idiot.’ 

“This is stupid,” you mutter under your breath. “I don’t need to talk to him.” 

But you actually really, really want to. You just have to be brave enough to start up a conversation with him, which should be easy, since he’s not surrounded by fans this time and he seems like a very laid-back person who wouldn’t mind speaking to a stranger, considering that people accost him every day on the street. You just have to make a good first impression. Although, to be honest, you feel like you’ve failed that step already. 

You’re still standing, so you can see everything he’s doing, which is, currently, not much. Like some of the other passengers, he’s tapping on the television screen, but it doesn’t do anything. He shrugs, then pulls a tablet out of his carry-on, which he had previously tucked under the seat. You think that maybe he had gone to the bathroom or something before you boarded, and that’s why you hadn’t seen him when you first arrived. That makes sense. 

He plugs headphones into the jack and turns the tablet on. You see an incredibly large amount of game icons, which would be alarming for anyone else, but it speaks to Mark’s dedication to his channel, the quality of his content, and his fans. Your admiration for him increases even more, and you feel overwhelming love for this beautiful person sitting right there, directly in front of you. 

However, you don’t want to spy on him for too long. It feels icky. He doesn’t even know that you’re watching him ((unlike all the other times that you’ve watched him… online)). But you also don’t want to disturb him by being a gross creepy on-looker. You don’t want to break his concentration. He’s scrolling through pages and pages of game icons, probably looking for a likely boredom-killer. You should sit down. 

You remain standing. You might as well see what he chooses, you tell yourself. It’ll probably be a game you can’t stomach. How can he play all of those 3D first person horror games! They make you feel terribly ill, more seasick than actually being rocked back and forth by a boat. If he picks one of those, then you have no reason to continue spying over his shoulder. You would have to sit and pout for the rest of the way. Heaven knows you won’t be able to talk to him without getting insanely tongue-tied. Maybe you’d faint! That would be such a disaster. You can already feel the void tugging at the edges of your consciousness, a small but intent pull. Gosh, this kind of nervousness usually only affects you when you’re taking exams that’re worth like 20% of your grade. What’s happening to you? 

Mark pauses for a second, then twirls his finger around one of the game icons. It looks like he’s made his choice. You can’t see what the game is called; the letters are too small. 

When he thumbs the icon, the game embiggens and you see huge white words shiver onto the screen. “Ghost Trick,” the title declares. A man in a red suit lies bottom-up underneath, underscoring the spooky tone of the game, you suppose. 

You’re curious about the game Mark’s decided to play, and you want to keep watching, but by now you’re getting kind of self-conscious that you’re the only one still on their feet. All of the other passengers seem to have settled in, and one of the flight attendants is coming around to check the contents of the overhead compartments. She tells you to sit down, firmly but politely. You detect nothing but sweetness in her voice. Reluctantly, and under much duress, you lower yourself onto your seat. 

There’s no good way to check on Mark again, because the “lounge chairs” are so wide. If you lean around and into the aisle, you’re just asking to get smacked in the face by the pretty flight attendant’s thigh. Maybe you wouldn’t mind that, but you don’t want a black eye. That would make it more difficult to see what Mark’s up to. 

He’s probably not recording anything he’s doing right now, at least. He might just be testing games for their quality, stuff to showcase on his channel in the future. You feel a little glow, being privy to part of the process. 

You sit up in your seat suddenly. Hey! That’s something you could talk to him about! Games! Uh-duh!!!

Even if you can’t get more than a few sentences out of your mouth before you start tripping all over yourself, games are something that you’re familiar with and comfortable with discussing. But… here’s the problem again: do you want to let him know that you’re a fan? 

You’re not sure how he would react. He’s always been very kind, generous, and gracious to his fans, as far as you know. Sassy at times, but always gentle. He loves encouraging fans and hearing about their experiences, especially if their lives changed for the better because of him. Despite that, however, there is a necessary degree of separation there. He doesn’t talk about his personal life all that much, other than self-deprecatory joking that he’s a lazy loser who likes to make videos alone in the dark. Video games define him and his lifestyle for the majority of his fans. You know only a handful of facts about him off the top of your head. And you will never know more unless you feign ignorance of your devotion. 

It’s not like you’re a stalker! Ugh, you’re repeating yourself. But it is true! You hadn’t even known he was making this trip until, what, like two hours ago? One hour ago? It doesn’t matter. The point is, this is crazy random happenstance. A sudden pot of gold that’s fallen directly into your lap. You don’t want to squander it! Whether or not he realizes you’re a fan, you’re not going to confide that information. You want to be his friend.

A real friend.

Something more than a friend…? You don’t know, but you’d like to try. How much can you learn about a guy in the span of a 15 hour flight? You want to find out. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome aboard…” the pilot’s voice crackles over the loudspeaker, and you listen as he says that the plane is ready to taxi out of the gate. It’s a beautiful day, clear skies all around, and there will be relatively little problem getting to Brisbane. He coughs around a mumble that there’s a little bit of a winter storm brewing on the Pacific, but the plane should be able to avoid any bad spots. 

Your journey has begun.

What better time to start talking to Mark than right now? 

You take a deep breath to steady yourself. Your heart-rate is still elevated, but you’re at least calm enough to think rational thoughts. Wait, talking to one of your celebrity crushes before you’ve worked out what you’re going to say isn’t exactly a sensible thing to do! 

But before you can stop, your arm reaches around the seat in front of you, and you tap on Mark’s shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished this chapter back in February 2017, and then I think that scandal with Mark happened where he defended Pewds's disgusting anti-semitism. So I sat on this chapter, and the next chapter (which I'd already written also) for a long time. I don't stand by what Mark said, or any half-assed apologies he came up with. If you don't think what Pewds and Mark said was wrong, get the hell off my story. I don't have the energy to debate with anti-semitic bozos. 
> 
> It's hard to see these incredible people supporting horrific beliefs perpetuated by losers like Pewds. It's killed a lot of momentum for this story, but I do want to finish it. I will likely include a reference to the scandal, even though in this story's timeline it wouldn't have happened yet. I actually conceived of this story waaay back in June 2015, yet only recently have had time to actually write it. The 'you' in the story is still in December 2015, if you can believe that. Ah, such a simpler time.


	4. Chapter 4

He leans around the seat, face partially obscured. He’s still wearing headphones. “Yeah?” he says. His eyes are smiling, and you can tell, even though you can’t see the lower half of his expression, that he’s grinning as well. God, he’s so beautiful. 

You blank on absolutely everything. Your name, where you came from, why you’re here. It’s all erased. Everything falls away when you gaze into his eyes. You think your body halts all of its functions for a second to drink him in. You don’t breathe. Your heart doesn’t beat. You can’t blink. 

Say something! Anything! You’re going to lose him, just like you’ve lost everything else, if you can’t keep his attention. Why are you such a dumb human being! 

“I… I have to use the bathroom,” you whisper. Great. Perfect. You’re a total idiot.

“Pardon?” he asks, slipping one headphone off. 

You scramble for a save. “Uh, will you watch my… stuff while I use the bathroom?” You don’t have anything valuable on your seat, not having taken out your laptop yet, nor do you have any gold or jewels in your backpack. Quickly, you take your phone out of your pocket and wave it in front of his face.

“Oh, you’re going to leave your phone? Why not bring it? I always like to play games on the toilet.” 

You stop waving your phone around. You just stare at him. Mark is apparently not embarrassed in the least by having admitted this to you, a complete stranger. In fact, you think he’s smiling a bit wider now. What is happening. 

“I… I don’t want my phone to… fall in?” you say, a quizzical lilt to your voice. You know you don’t have to justify your reasoning to him, but it feels so strangely natural to be having a crude conversation with the Markiplier. Something about him sets you at ease. Here he is, this famous internet celebrity, talking to you about what he does in the bathroom like it’s nothing. Well, by now it’s probably common knowledge that lots of people take their phones to the toilet, to have something to do… while taking care of necessary business. Still, you feel like you really should be questioning his conduct. 

“Ah, I see. Smart, that’s smart. Yeah, I never really worry about that, but maybe I should! Especially in places that aren’t my house. I wouldn’t want to fish my phone out of an airplane toilet bowl. That blue junk in the bottom smells disgusting! So, sure, I’ll watch your phone for you! Can you give it to me? I don’t want to crane my neck around every minute to make sure it’s still there.” 

He holds out his hand expectantly. You look at his fingers. They have calluses from years of gameplay, and probably also musical instruments. You want to trace them, to feel the rough edges. You want to hold his hand. 

Mark’s arm drops a little, and the movement brings you back to the present. He’d been waiting for your response while you creepily salivated over his digits. No, not like that! Geez, you’re a perv. 

“I’ll give it back, don’t you fret. I’d never keep it or sell it on eBay.” He laughs, and the sound fills you with longing and a surge of happiness. “I’m not that tech-savvy, and it’d be so mean of me to steal a nice phone from a nice girl!” 

That comment surprises you. You can feel heat flooding your cheeks, and you want to duck away. You drop your phone into his palm. “Thank you,” you say, not quite able to meet his eyes. “I’ll be back in a few.” 

“Oh, take your time. I’ll be here!” 

With a little wave, he turns around and you’re left with no recourse but to walk down the aisle to the tiny restroom. 

A flight attendant gives you a disapproving glance as you speed past her, but when she sees where you’re headed she lets you go. You’re grateful that she doesn’t care enough ((or does she care just enough??)) to send you back to your seat, because you really want to splash some cold water on your face right now. 

When you reach the little bathroom, you jiggle the handle before realizing that it’s already occupied. If the red lock didn’t alert you to that fact, a gruff voice inside proclaims that there’s somebody already in there. You issue a quick apology. 

But you don’t want to stand around waiting. The plane is already en route to the runway. You catch the gaze of the pretty-but-stern flight attendant again, and offer a sheepish smile. She looks away. 

Discouraged, you press your hands against your face. It’s amazing that you can still feel the heat emanating from your cheeks. You curse yourself for being way too easily flustered. Cold water is all that stands between you and a cooled visage. There’s gotta be another sink around here somewhere. Or you could drench yourself with those little cups of water that they’re going to bring around to the passengers when it’s time to serve refreshments. 

You cross to the other side of first class, where there’s another tiny toilet stall. It’s empty, but when you get inside you immediately understand why no one would want to use it. It looks like someone’s been sick all over the mini-counter and floor, and nobody’s bothered to clean it up yet. You hastily back out of the space and shut the door. You think about alerting a flight attendant, but you don’t want the lady to be more annoyed with you than she already is. It’s not like you’re the person who’s been sick… actually, you do feel a bit queasy… but you can’t prove that to her. You’re sure someone will alert the proper cleaning authorities in due time. 

There are two more restrooms near the cockpit, but they’re dangerously close to Mark’s seat, and you don’t want to see him again until you’ve washed your cheeks free of embarrassment.

You consider other options. You look around, and notice that there’s a curtain. A long, narrow gap splits the middle of it, allowing light to filter through. You move as close as possible to the slit, and peer through it. 

You’re at the edge between first class and the rest of the plane. You see rows and rows of people all squashed together, sardines in a flying tin can. They look relaxed, happily chatting amongst themselves, playing with various devices, reading numerous books. Your eyes sweep across the lot of them, this small section of the human population. You don’t know what to think of them. You’re neutral, you suppose. A thought occurs to you, and you search some more, but you don’t spot any sign of Nico. You frown, but reason that you can probably find him later. 

Then you actually discover something you’re looking for. There’s a cubicle with a green circle above the door handle not five feet in front of you. All you have to do is pull back the curtain and you’ll be like three steps away. 

You don’t ponder if it’s allowed for you to do this as you nervously yank back the curtain and place yourself right where you want to be. Just as you’re about to open the door, however, a voice calls out to you. 

“Oi! You there!” 

You freeze, and briefly consider putting your arms up as a joke. You don’t do that, though. 

“Hey! Come over here a sec.” 

You’re not entirely sure if this person is talking to you, but you glance around anyway to locate the source of the command. 

And, for possibly the millionth time that day, klaxons blare loudly in your head, and you’re shocked stock still. 

‘For gods’ sake,’ you think to yourself, ‘How is this even real?’ 

There’s no mistaking it. Michael Jones, of Achievement Hunter and Rooster Teeth fame, is glaring right at you. He’s standing up, not quite in the aisle, but enough so that he’s definitely noticeable above the sea of multicolored heads. His brows are deeply furrowed, and his mouth is set in an angry frown. He looks like he’s about two seconds away from cussing you out. You could die happy right now. 

“Didja hear me? Get over here!” 

Your legs move of their own accord, and you walk as stiffly as a board about five rows down to plant yourself in front of Michael. Other people seem slightly concerned, and watch you both out of the corners of their eyes. You don’t think Michael will start a fight, but the ire plastered all over his face suggests he’s pissed about something. You brace yourself for something bloody, whether in words or in deeds. 

“Took ya long enough. What’re you, deaf?” His tone is irritated, but slightly amused. 

You shake your head. 

“Can’t you speak?” 

You nod, then clear your throat and squeak out a small, “Yes, I can.” 

“Alright.” 

Up close he doesn’t appear to be as frightening. Your shoulders may still be taut with tension, but his features have softened. He’s never as mad as he seems to be anyway. Not anymore. Not since Lindsay came into his life. 

You clear your throat again, and this time you speak with a bit of a harsh edge to your voice. “Can I help you?” 

He laughs at that, swipes his thumb across his nose. “Yeah. You’re in first class, aren’tcha? Or are you just sneaking around and having a good time of it?” 

There’s something about the way he phrases this that makes you bristle. “I paid to be there, yes.” 

“Great! I have a question for you. Two questions, really. Well, maybe one question and one favor.” 

A favor? What could Michael Jones want from you? You cross your arms and steel your face into a mask of neutrality. Never mind that you’re pretty sure the rest of your body is shaking. 

“What do you want,” you say as flatly and evenly as you can. 

He offers a grin and spreads his arms wide before grasping the head rest in front of him. “Do you know who I am?” 

You blink. What the heck brought this on? You think about your interactions with Mark and Nico, and how you want to be treated as a real person, not just a drooling fan ((although, to be honest, how many times have you salivated over your favorite celebs)), by people whom you’re never going to see again in real life. You also think about taking Michael down a peg, since he seems to be certain that you’ll say yes, oh my god may I worship you on my knees. You’ve never thought about how smug certain celebrities can be off-camera, as if their fame and recognition are guaranteed everywhere. He’s a sardonic bastard on-camera most of the time anyway. But perhaps he’s putting on a show here too. Once you’re on camera, do you ever really go off of it? 

“Nope. Never seen you before in my life. Next question.” 

Now it’s his turn to be stunned, to be a deer in the headlights for a moment. But his recovery time is incredible. 

“Oh! Wow, really? Then I guess you have no idea who the people on your shirt are either.” 

You glance down at your chest. Crap, crap, crap. You’re wearing a RWBY shirt today. Why didn’t you remember that. It’s white, and features Weiss holding her sword behind her back. It’s also sort of see-through, but where you’re going you need the lightest clothes imaginable. 

“I borrowed this shirt. From my roommate. It’s a cool design, but I’ve heard that this show isn’t all that great. I’ve never seen it,” you snap, feeling your temper grow, caught up in Michael’s belligerent energy. 

What are you doing! You’re just digging yourself in deeper with all of these lies! But you’ve gotta admit, you get a secret rush of joy seeing Michael’s scowl return with a vengeance. You feel just a bit naughty.

He looks hard at you for a moment, then retorts, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter who I am. What does matter is who you’re in first class with. I suppose you haven’t heard of him, and you’ve also borrowed a shirt with his logo on it from your much cooler roommate.” 

Your skin pales before he even finishes his sentence. That’ll get rid of your red cheeks in a pinch. You ignore the slight to your coolness and focus on who he’s hinting about. Markiplier. Of course. Everybody who’s anybody in the gaming community on YouTube knows Mark. You recall Michael mentioning him once or twice on some Achievement Hunter video or other. It’s possible that they’re friends in real life, but you don’t know. Wait, actually, you don’t think so, given that Michael’s going to ask you a favor regarding Mark. 

“Is there somebody who’s actually famous in first class?” 

Michael’s eye twitches at your emphasis, and his glower darkens his face. You note that he takes his hands off of the headrest, possibly to ball them into fists. But instead he mirrors your stance, crossing his arms. He looks like he wants to say something scathing in reply, but refrains from doing so. He still wants that favor, no matter how ridiculously mean you’re behaving. It’s not your fault, you don’t think. Petulant people tend to bring out your nasty side. 

However, on some level, you are quite enjoying this. You just find his impotent rage so cute. It makes his face scrunch adorably. You like that you were able to induce such emotion. It is like the old days, when his anger powered his personality. But what Michael says next brings you back to the present. 

“Yeah. Korean-looking guy, with glasses and dark hair. Very handsome. Probably not wearing a monkey suit. I saw him at the gate, but his fans were choking him and I couldn’t get through to say hi.” His eyes narrow for an instant. “You didn’t notice all of those people there? It was practically a mob.” 

Of course you noticed the crowd. Now that you think about it, you probably wouldn’t have been able to ask Mark anything even if you hadn’t spent a good hour talking to Nico. That’s how thick the adoring horde was. 

“I did see that there were a lot more people than usual. Hm, a handsome Korean-looking guy? Is he a singer?” You’re better at playing dumb than you thought.  
Michael tries and fails to hold back a laugh at your suggestion that Mark’s a K-pop star. This eases the tension somewhat. You smile too, knowing how funny the scenario would sound to a person who’s a real fan. 

He’s uncrossed his arms now, and is grinning one of his trademark plotting grins. “Oh boy he sure can sing. I love his voice.” 

Right. Mark does sing, but that’s not what he’s primarily known for. You wait for Michael to tell you this, but he doesn’t. 

“Okay, so?” you ask, injecting an ounce of impatience into your tone. You really should get back to your seat soon. You can see a flight attendant way at the other end of the plane moving around. 

“Yeah, so, could you, like, get his autograph for me?” His grin is showing his canines, and you’re disappointed that his anger has dissipated. But now that he’s loosening up, you’re losing a bit of your frigidity yourself. His charm also has that kind of effect on people, it seems. 

You’re a little bit surprised that Michael apparently hasn’t met Mark before, but you suppose that makes sense. The Achievement Hunters are based in Texas, so it’s not like they can visit Mark all the time like the Game Grumps do. Or maybe Michael wants his fifth autograph from him and you are none the wiser. Still, you wonder why, if Michael’s such a big fan, that he hasn’t convinced his team to collaborate with Mark yet. 

In fact, now that you’re thinking of it, where is the rest of Achievement Hunter? And why is Michael flying to Brisbane? It’s not the season for RTX Australia. Maybe, like Mark, Michael is filming a project somewhere. 

You don’t want to make it too obvious that you’re looking around for all of the other members of AH, so you cut your eyes quickly from one side to another, making a big show of considering Michael’s request. Not that you were ever going to deny him. 

There aren’t any other faces you recognize. Even the people sitting next to him don’t appear to know him. They’ve been watching your exchange warily, ready to call for a flight attendant if things get dicey. You doubt Michael would sit alone if he didn’t have to, but you get an idea of how to ask if any of his friends are on board, just to be sure you aren’t missing any other famous YouTubers.

“Sure, I guess. Do your friends want autographs too?” You glance meaningfully to the people in Michael’s row. One of them shakes their head. The other buries her nose in a book, blushing. 

“What? My friends?” His gaze follows yours. “I don’t know those guys.” He looks you straight in the eyes, and the strength of the stare is overwhelming. “His autograph’s all for me.” 

You’re taken aback by his words, but force nonchalance. You shrug. “Okay. What’ve you got for him to sign? And a sharpie would be great.” 

Michael shrugs too, mimicking your movement. “I don’t… hm. Wait a sec.” He holds up a finger, and then, in one smooth, controlled motion, pulls his shirt over his head. 

If you weren’t so committed to nonchalance, you would’ve gasped. As it is, you maintain your composure, though people around you aren’t so chill with the fact that Michael is now folding up his shirt and pressing it into the crook of your crossed arms. It is warm and soft, and doesn’t bear any scent that you can smell. You hear someone whisper, “What the actual hell,” and you’re thinking the same thing. He is wearing a white wife-beater, so it isn’t like he’s half-naked, but it’s still alarming. You know that Michael’s usually against showing skin off, unless it’s for a good cause, like that time he was tasered for charity. It appears he’s literally willing to give away the shirt on his back if it means he’ll get some attention from Markiplier. And, really, couldn’t you say the same? Not that you’re gonna perform a strip-show for him or anything. That would be way too much, way too fast. 

“There you go. I don’t have a sharpie, though. I could ask someone.” 

You try your best to look unimpressed as you uncross your arms to let his shirt dangle limply at your side. “No need. I have one in my backpack.” 

He perks up at that. “Oh yeah? You in school?” 

You nod. 

He nods back, sagely. “Good. Stay in school.” 

It takes what little control you have left not to roll your eyes at his advice. “Thanks, dad,” you say with all of the enthusiasm of a mother tending to a screaming child. 

Michael’s mouth twists in an imitation of a grin, and he sits down just as a flight attendant, who’d been coming up the aisle making the final checks, spots you out of your seat. You turn around in a hurry, avoiding eye contact with the exasperated attendant.

“Don’t mention it, kiddo,” you hear Michael say, before you dash through the curtain to the safety and comfort of the first class cabin once more.


	5. Chapter 5

The encounter has left you kind of shaken, with a thumping heart and unsteady legs that you thankfully only give in to once the curtain flaps closed. You half-collapse against the door to that bathroom that probably still has some sick on the floor. You really can’t quite believe that you’ve met three ((three!!!)) of your all-time favorite entertainers in the span of an hour. What incredible luck you have! Seriously, what kind of karma did you bring over from a past life that sanctified such clandestine meetings! And will you run into more of that elite class of people? Is Lady Gaga lurking just around the corner? Well, probably not, but you’re up for anything at this point. Maybe this is a sign that one day you’ll be famous yourself…

You force yourself to move back to your seat after the pretty flight attendant stares at you with some concern. You sink back down into your cushy first class chair, clutching Michael’s still warm shirt in your fist. You’re not sure what you want to do with it. You know that Michael’s probably expecting you to return it with Mark’s signature during the period when the captain turns the seat-belt signs off, but you also want to keep it for yourself. Michael can’t come barging into first class without a reason, and telling the attendants that you have his shirt would seem ludicrous enough that they wouldn’t let him through. Hopefully.

There isn’t a lot that you can bring yourself to feel guilty about, and mulling over stealing this shirt is no exception. Remorse for your particular proclivities crops up from time to time when you’re faced with the dire reality of the situation, but you usually keep that kind of thing to yourself. You don’t think about it too much unless you’re searching for stuff on the internet and run into a bunch of strangers who share your tastes. Anonymity really helps with that! So, who cares if you keep this one little thing? Nobody’s going to be hurt by it. You won’t even blab about it on your blog: no one would believe you! Sure, it’s super creepy and gross to put Michael’s shirt into your private collection, but only you and the person you took it from (Michael Jones) know that.

You sigh and bury your nose in the folds of soft fabric. The smell clinging to the cloth is faint; this shirt must have been washed recently. It tells a tale of laundry detergent and B.O. in the pits. But there’s something strikingly Michael-scented lurking at the collar and the stomach. You can’t quite put your finger on it, but it’s musky and masculine with a hint of fragrant lavender. It doesn’t exactly do it for you, you lie to yourself as you take another deep sniff. Boy howdy you’re sure trying real hard to justify smuggling this thing across the country. Maybe you should just get it signed—and then it would be worth twice as much for you to keep!!!

The plane is at the beginning of the runway, ready for take-off, and you look out the window at the San Francisco landscape once more, shirt pulled over your nose. Power lines and dry rolling hills overlay the busy highway, which you can just about make out. It’s still sunny, which is unusual for San Fran in the winter, but you choose to take it as a good omen. Then the plane starts to move. In less than ten seconds, the plane’s wheels lose contact with the runway, and you can feel the separation in your gut, a sudden weightless sensation; Earth displaced by air. You watch the ground as you pull farther and farther away from everything, and soon the ocean stretches out endlessly under your gaze. It will probably be the same scenery for a while, save for the occasional island. You’re not opposed to staring out the window if there’s something good to watch, but if it’s just going to be the same blue expanse hour after hour, you’d rather spend your time inside than out.

You stretch and lean back in your seat, contemplating placing Michael’s shirt over your entire face as if it were a warm towel. A cough catches your attention, and you turn slightly to see a familiar hand reaching around a seat. In the palm is your phone.

Mark! You gasp, a quick and shallow intake of breath, and pluck the phone from his grasp. “Thank you,” you say, hoping he can hear you above the roar of the engine, “for keeping it safe!”

“No problem! I’m happy to do it,” Mark replies, and you swear there’s a smile in his voice.

Now’s probably a good time to get the shirt signed—if you bring it up later it would be super obvious and weird that you’d held on to it for a long period of time. And you’re trying your very best not to appear like a total skeez, even though you absolutely are one.

“I have another favor to ask,” you say loudly, attempting to lean around the seat in front of you, “and this might sound strange at first, but bear with me, alright?”

Mark’s hand, which is still visible at his seat’s side, gives you a thumbs up, and he says, “Sure, what is it? I’m always up for strange things!”

You’re sort of surprised that he seems to be enjoying himself and is eager for more dumb shenanigans. Actually, what are you saying, “dumb shenanigans” is Mark’s middle name and tag line. But then you think a bit more. Why would he agree instantly to go along with your plan? Were his games not enough to distract him? Well, perhaps he thinks you’re entertaining… in a sad clown kind of way. You roll your eyes at your own melodrama.

Shaking your head to clear those self-pitying thoughts, you say, “Thanks for being such a good sport. Anyway, _apparently_ ,” and here you emphasize the word so that he couldn’t possibly mistake that the next few sentences apply to you also, “there’s a fan of yours onboard and he wants you to sign his shirt.”

You see Mark’s hand fall limply and dangle for a second before gripping the armrest. You try not to turn away or stare as his whole face peeks around the chair. “A fan of mine?”

You press back against the soft caress of your seat and knead the t-shirt in your hands. “Yeah!” you reply, a little too loudly. “Someone back in the regular cabin, not up here. Asked me to bring you this so that you could… sign it! With a sharpie. Here!”

You scramble about in your pencil bag for the telltale thick black marker, and fork it over with the shirt. Mark hesitates, but takes them both and retracts his face and hand from your view. You shrink back in your small, one-person aisle.

You’re suddenly not sure if this was a smart thing to do. Mark must not have a lot of opportunities to just relax and breathe, away from the crush of his adoring fans. Up in the sky, away from the heaviness and gravity of earthly duties, he was probably looking forward to a few hours all by himself, with only boring and snoring businesspeople for company. Wouldn’t that be a treat for him, to be alone.

And you’ve ruined it. You’ve reminded him that he’s always, always under pressure to deliver, perpetually under the watchful eye of some grey-skinned anon who’s fawning and frowning, hungry for his work, his presence, his essence. Him.

All at once, you’re awash in shame, but before you can dissect this new frothing emotion, you’re quick to put a smile on your face as Mark peers at you again.

“Do you remember who it was? I’d like to give it to him myself!”

Shame is quickly replaced with fear and the tingling anticipation of loss. No way! That’s your shirt! You’ve already made up your mind that you’re not giving it back to Michael.

Your voice takes on a breathless quality that’s hopefully drowned out by the ambient plane noise. “Um, I can do that, if you’d rather stay here and unwind. It must be kinda weird to meet fans where you aren’t expecting them!”

Mark raises an eyebrow at you. Gosh he’s charming. “I’ve met many fans in unexpected places. One time—” but then he seems to think better of what he was about to say and instead goes with, “Anyway, I love seeing people who enjoy my work. Makes what I do worth it, y’know?” Then his eyes take on a twinkle, and his grin widens and wow is it getting hot in here? He seems to have thought of something else. Mark opens his mouth again, and you can count all of his perfect, straight teeth. “Are you a fan of mine too?”

Above all else, you’d never want to lie to Markiplier. Though technically, you already have. But that was just a little white lie! This would be a big one, a much bigger one, right to his face! You swear you’d die before that happens. But at the same time, you’ve already justified it to yourself. And you’ve already deceived YouTubers you love. NicoB. Michael Jones. You’re still hoping for kindness, for friendship, from this person you know you don’t deserve it from. Maybe you can distract him, instead of answering him.

But nothing comes to you. No savior borne on hopeful wings, either. So you look him straight in the eye, and shake your head.

“Nah, I’ve never really been one for Kpop.”

Mark stares at you for a second before bursting into laughter. You try to hide your smile, but his disbelieving giggles are so infectious that before long you can’t quite contain your mirth either. Finally he wipes his eyes and grins at you. You grin back at him.

“Maybe you… or this “fan” of mine, has me confused for some other person! I’m not a Kpop star. Well, I do sing, but in English, so, y’know. I suppose if I ever put my mind to it I could have a number one hit on the radio.”

You rush to reassure him that Michael was indeed not mistaken. You’re really too good with this whole improvisational lying bit. “No, no, he identified you by name.” He actually hadn’t, but goddammit you will get your shirt signed and hang it up on your bedroom wall forever. “Called you… Markiploo, I think? I thought it was a cute stage name.”

Mark’s grin widens. “That is a cute stage name. But the name’s actually Markiplier, and I don’t exactly perform on a stage.”

“Oh?” you say casually, worried that he might be trying to lay a trap for you. It’s ridiculous, really, how your imagination runs wild around him. You’re not paying attention to his words so much as his mouth as it forms the words, or his eyes as they sparkle and blink and move. You can’t see a lot of him, but what you can see you’re absolutely mesmerized by. Is it possible to be in love with a person you’ve only seen online?

Yes, you say silently to yourself, as Mark is going on a tangent about what it might be like to be a Kpop star (he doesn’t think his life would change drastically if that were the case), and wow he’d love to go see more of Korea (he’s from there, or at least his mother’s family is). He doesn’t mention anything about his YouTube career. You only note this as an aside, as you’re distracted by… just him. He always looks younger, almost boyish, when he’s excitedly chattering about something. Not only is he handsome and sexy, he’s adorable to boot. Not many people can exude these three qualities at once. He somehow hits every mark on the attractiveness spectrum.

He’s still talking, and you’re only half-listening, daydreaming about Mr. and Mrs. Markiplier, when he seems to remember why he’s speaking to you in the first place.

“Anyway, if you could point him out, that’d be a huge help!”

“Huh? Oh, right. Well, I guess. I… should check to make sure I recognize him before I send you over to some random person who doesn’t know who you are. From the sound of it, seems like you’re a pretty big deal.” You filthy liar. You’d recognize Michael Jones even if he were a blurry blob in a photograph taken from 100 yards away. What you’re really doing is trying to buy time before you have to give up the most valuable shirt on earth. You need to come up with a plan to stop the exchange from happening.

Mark’s eyes focus, and a thoughtful look crosses his face. “Yeah. You should do that! Alright, I’m gonna get back to my game. It’s looking pretty interesting. I love puzzle games.” He nods to you, and you get the feeling he’s waiting for you to say something incriminating. You hesitate.

“Um, have fun with your game. I hope it turns out well.” You smile meekly, and inwardly cringe at how cowardly you’re acting. What the hell, you’re never going to raw this man if all you can say to him are timid platitudes that belie your true feelings!

But Mark doesn’t press you for more. Instead, he gives you a final radiant smile and turns around. You already miss him.

Now, back to your musings. You want that shirt. You want it so bad. How are you going to get it out of Mark’s clutches and into your own? Intercept it? That would be impossible; you don’t have anything to replace it with besides your own shirt. Also, you think he’d realize something was amiss if you discreetly switched out the shirts and put on Michael’s. Besides the size difference, Weiss was emblazoned across the front, and she didn’t give a damn about standing out. Compared to Michael’s plain t-shirt, Mark would have to be an idiot not to notice that something was odd. Hmm… no! So, steal it while he takes a nap? You shake your head. Unlikely that he would decide to, seeing as he’s in the middle of an engaging game. You also don’t know how healthy his sleep schedule actually is. You’re under the impression that he doesn’t take much care of himself in that department. What to do… what to do…

An idea comes to you suddenly, striking you with the force of lightning. You blink several times, then allow a slow smirk to spread across your face. You lean back in your seat, steepling your fingers as you formulate your scheme. You’re the picture of a wicked fangirl. But then you spy that the pretty flight attendant is coming around for drink orders, so you drop your evil-plans-are-happening smile and politely ask for a Coca-Cola.

In a few minutes she’s back with your drink, and you sip it delicately, feeling as much as tasting the fizz from the carbonation dance on your tongue.

You need to go find Nico B.


	6. Chapter 6

You spend the next two hours flipping through the channels on your little tv and watching Beauty and the Beast. You were going to get up as soon as possible and run to find Nico, but the seat-belt sign was on and you dared not cross it. It is Law that you’re not to leave your seat for any reason, not even if you’re exploding with pee, until the captain turns the seat-belt sign off. As you have clearly demonstrated in the past few hours, you couldn’t care less about fraud, larceny, or perjury, but disobeying the Sky Laws is unforgivable. 

So you had scrolled through the movies available on your baby tv monitor, impressed by the selection. They even had some movies that were still in theatres! You had chosen Beauty and the Beast because you hadn’t seen it in a while, and you love the songs and the setting and how deliciously tsundere and handsome the Beast… um, you mean Adam, the human Adam… is. You’re not sure what kind of “-dere” you would be. Probably not a tsundere. You don’t like the stereotype of people acting hostile towards each other before they fall in love. That’s just an unhappy start to a relationship, you think. Snarky and sarcastic, sure, just like how you were speaking to Michael earlier, but not overtly hateful. You think about it some more. Definitely not a dandere. Once you’re comfortable enough around someone, you never shut up. Just like Nico. Maybe you could be a himedere? You do think you’re classy and polite enough to pull that off. Hmm… your mind wanders to how you’ve interacted with all of your crushes so far. Particularly the ones who are right here on this very plane. It’s fair to say that you like each of them for their own merits, and you’d certainly classify your feelings towards all of them as optimistically romantic in nature. You’ve never had the opportunity to act on more than one crush at once, and while you wouldn’t dismiss the possibility of having so much on your plate, you can’t imagine that it would be easy to have your cake and eat it too. Assuming that you can work up the nerve to ask any, never mind all, of them. And assuming that they’d accept such a proposal too!

Polyamory is a fascinating subject to you, but you haven’t studied it in depth. You don’t even know if any scientific, peer-reviewed papers have been published on it, studying the various communities in America. It crops up from time to time on reality television, but the media rarely presents it in a positive light. This might be because all of the reasons for having poly families seem to be religious in nature. You hate that most representations depict one man surrounded by many doting wives who cite religion as their number one reason why they tolerate staying with one disgusting man amid many other women. The non-religious accounts are about swingers, who are portrayed as sleazy, noncommittal, sex-crazed orgy-having ding dongs. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with having relations like that! It is simply frustrating that those stereotypes are the only two illustrations in abundance. There are some progressive stances on it; Penn and Teller once did a special on polyamory with a positive spin. But their show is one voice out of many, many others. It’s just… you want a story about a woman who’s in a very happy, healthy, committed polyamorous relationship. Like a marriage, but with more people, and they’re all doing their parts to make it work, even if it is hard. Fanfiction might be your only recourse, there.

You don’t know why you’d want to have more than one partner in the first place. It’s not like you have that much experience with even one person! But more partners can introduce a lot of things. A healthier, fuller social circle. More money. A bigger house. More pets! You smile fondly as you picture everything in your mind’s eye.

All of you would go to bed at like 3 a.m. and wake up in the mid-morning. Mark would wake first, kissing you gently as you snuggle closer to him. He would go downstairs to let the dogs out, and decide that an early morning jog with the puppers would be a great way to start the day. Then Michael would roll over and totally accidentally smack you in the boob, which would make you grunt but also quirk a questioning eyebrow at him. You would see his smirk slowly growing on his face, half-hidden in the pillow, and he would wink at you. You’d giggle and wink back. He’d knead your breast for a second, struggling over to your side of the enormous bed. He clambers over Nico, whose long, lean legs are tangled with yours.

Michael kisses your mouth, and you mumble something about morning breath, to which he just sneers. He slides on top of you, and your breath hitches, but he’s only teasing you. He continues moving, off of you and the bed. He pads to the bathroom and leaves the door partially open, an unspoken invitation to join him in the shower. You’d love to, but Nico is still asleep, and you want to scroll through your phone for a few minutes while you fully wake up. The phone screen must be too bright, because five minutes later you feel another hand caressing your skin, this time following the curve of your thighs and ass all the way up to your collarbone. You shiver and turn away, concentrating on the tiny text of the screen. Nico takes this opportunity to become the big spoon to your little one, arm draping over your waist and squeezing you, drawing your flesh as closely as possible to his chest. You can feel his morning wood pressing into the meat of your thigh, but you don’t bother to squeeze him back. If he wants to do something about it, he’ll have to ask using his grown-up words. 

Nico’s kisses start peppering your shoulders and neck, and you relent, feeling obliged to return the favor. You put your phone down and turn towards him, which surprises him a bit, as evidenced by his slightly widened, but still very sleepy eyes. You’re smaller than him by a lot, but right now he’s slightly lower on the bed than you are (the better to reach your neck and chest, you think) so you start by pressing gentle lips to his forehead. You continue your tiny kisses down the side of his face, and you know he’s smiling widely when you get to his cheeks. You smooch his mouth, and he opens it up, ready for some deeper action, but you kiss your way down to his neck instead. 

Your fingers splay across his chest, rubbing slow circles around his nipples, occasionally tweaking them. You feel his cock twitch in anticipation, but you’re not there yet. You lick and lave at the tender skin by his jugular, nibbling just under his ear. He’s breathing a bit faster now, and small moans tumble from him eagerly, exciting you and encouraging your wandering hands to explore more of his chest. They glide down his ribs, skim his tummy, and come dangerously close to snapping the waistband of his boxers before they run up his sides to play with his nipples again. Nico’s also touching you, though he’s distracted and delighted by your ministrations. His hands are in your hair one minute, down your back the next, stroking your spine and tickling you with feather-light caresses. You’re giggling, and he’s panting, small pleasurable sounds interspersed with his heavy breathing. You begin kissing his chest, moving slowly but surely towards what he really wants your mouth on, when Michael’s shadow looms over you. 

You gasp as he shoves his way onto the bed and grasps your breast from behind, insistent erection on your ass that’s in no way hidden beneath a layer of clothing. Nico makes a noise of protest, but you’re a bit miffed that Michael would assume such ownership over you even in your own daydream! You twist your body to lie flat on your back, narrowing your eyes at Michael and are about to give him a piece of your mind when Nico latches onto your breast, and suddenly you can’t form complete sentences anymore. Michael nods approvingly at Nico, who ignores him, and also finds his way to your nipple, sucking it with much more intensity. 

One man’s hand is gripping your thigh and massaging closer and closer to your clit, and the other man’s hand is all over your stomach and sides, sweeping great lengths of your body and arousing you all over. You’re getting wet, and you’re squirming and giggling, and sometimes moaning. You pull Nico’s dick free of his boxers with just your left hand, and you don’t need to see Michael’s to grab his. You start jerking them off simultaneously while they pleasure you relentlessly. 

Their hands meet at your clit, and they eye each other for a moment warily before deciding to bring you to climax as one. Nico searches for your clit, and your hips jump when he brushes against it. He’s too distracted to pay attention to your chest now, so Michael takes over, greedy tongue licking your neck, collarbone, and breasts. He roughly kisses you too, when he comes up to your face, and he tastes like mint. His hands squeeze and knead your waist, and you twist like a maniac under his magic touch. Somehow you manage to keep ahold of their cocks, and you grin wildly whenever you wring a curse or a gasp of pleasure out of them. They’re almost ready to burst, you know it. Pre-cum is steadily oozing out of the heads, and more than once they’ve thrust into your hands without consciously meaning to. 

Nico has his fingers on your clit, but he’s reluctant to move down to put his mouth on it because then you wouldn’t be able to reach his dick. You’d suggest switching to a sixty-nine position but you’re a bit preoccupied, and so is he. You’re fine with what he does do, though. In fact, you’re more than fine. He grasps the nub gently and starts rubbing and pinching it softly at first, then harder and harder while the delicious pressure builds in your lower abdomen. In your fantasy, you’d like it if all three of you came at the same time, but you know that’s not realistic. Haha, since when are you such a sucker for reality? Michael can’t control himself. With a groan of gratification that sounds almost painful, he comes, ejaculating his semen all over your tummy and breasts. You keep pumping him as he spills his seed, and don’t stop when he’s finished. He bites your neck to retaliate against the painful chafing you’re submitting him to, but in a moment he’s semi-hard and ready for more. As soon as it’s good for him again, he recommences ravishing you. 

Nico comes next with a curse, hips moving like pistons as his cock shoots white strings of sperm. They also land on your chest and stomach, crossing Michael’s to finish a sloppy ‘X’ across your body, marking you. You continue to jerk him even after he’s done, which he responds to enthusiastically by rubbing your clit just the way you like it when you’re ready to blow. Nico’s head is resting on your shoulder and other than his hand he’s not stirring at all, giving 100% of his concentration to your bliss.

You come back to yourself just before you orgasm in the fantasy, and quickly snatch your hand away from the front of your shorts, which feel more… moist… than usual. 

You contemplate going for the gold, but there would be complications, you know this. To say nothing about getting caught! But you’ve created such a fantasy for yourself that you’re swept away by the romance and intrigue, and sensations of it all. You, the lonely coward curled up in your own corner of the universe, watching the world from a distance. 

You sit up a bit straighter, willing those vivid images you conjured up to fade. But you can still remember everything. The limber bodies. Michael’s teeth on your breast. Nico’s convulsions. And your own pleasure, which seemed so great a few minutes ago, now dulled to a throbbing ache between your thighs. These images and feelings are real for you. They won’t go away. It seems as though today fate has dropped more into your lap than you’ve ever bargained for. Maybe your dreams are guiding you towards something that can make your life exponentially better. So, you should make the most of it. When are you ever going to have this kind of chance again? You seriously wonder if any of them would consent to your offer to join the Mile High Club. No! You’re too timid to even ask. But something, probably the lust if you had to make a guess, urges you onward. 

The seatbelt sign is still on, but no Sky Laws are going to stop you from getting what you want. Fate has made you selfish. Your daydream has left you frazzled and needy, feeling a little bit fuzzy and flirty, and you still can’t seem to shake it. You check for any lingering flight attendants, but it seems the pretty one who’s been patrolling this side of the plane is off doing something else. You don’t see any others. 

Quickly, with a speed you did not know you possessed, you unbuckle yourself and fly down the aisle. You hear a hushed, “Hey!” thrown your way, but you do not stop. You think it was one of your fellow passengers, and what’re they gonna do, report you? You hope not. 

There’s a curtain on this side too, separating the elite and the standard cabins, and you pull it aside with as much delicacy as you can muster in your current state. A child in the first row looks up at you in surprise, but it seems as though most everyone else is occupied by something or other. Nobody bothers to glance your way as you start slinking down the aisle, looking for the familiar boyish face of one Nico B. On the other side of the plane you see Michael with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Either the attendants made him cover up his impressive muscles, or he’s cold. Boo hoo, poor chilly boy. He’s lost his shirt for good if you can see your plan through. You stick out your tongue at him and continue on your way. Michael doesn’t appear to notice you at all. 

Halfway through the plane, you’ve twice dodged a passenger asking you for water, and have handed a doll back to a delighted toddler. You’re ready to turn tail and head for the hills whenever a flight attendant spots you, but luckily that has not happened yet. You continue creeping around, carefully checking every face in the rows available to you. You move slowly enough that some people have started to notice you, and one person stops you to ask if you’re alright. You reply that you’re fine, and they let you go, though they still seem concerned. You cross your fingers that they don’t think you’re suspicious enough to report. You certainly hope you don’t have the look of a criminal, but on the inside you know you’re rotten. 

At long last, about three-quarters of the way through your search, you’ve got him. Nico’s sitting at a window seat, laptop out in front of him, click-clacking away at a simple-looking game. You think it’s a farming simulator. There are two other people in his row who seem to be unrelated to him. The one in the middle seat, an elementary school-aged boy, is dozing, and his mother is watching a documentary on her little tv screen. You’re not sure how to best get Nico’s attention, or how to talk to him with these other people here. What you’re planning on saying would sound a little bit weird, you think, and you don’t need other people judging you or your schemes. As you’re debating on how best to go about this, Nico looks up at you. He must’ve felt your eyes on him. 

“Oh hey,” he says casually, turning back to his laptop as he continues with his game, “How’s it going?” 

“F-fine,” you reply, imitating his casual attitude. What are you going to do? 

“How’s first-class life treating you?”

“Whu? Um, good, it’s good.” You’ve lost all of your confidence, just like when you tripped over that cord when you were on your way to see Markiplier hours earlier in the terminal. A tug in your gut reminds you that you haven’t forgotten your daydream. It’s hard to reconcile this Nico with your imagined version of him. He has the same figure, but none of the movements. He’s sitting quite still, relaxed and lazy in his focus. Farming simulators tend to be chill, and you can tell he’s enjoying it. 

The mother in the aisle seat of Nico’s row is now eyeing you with a quizzical expression. Her son is napping soundly, and you’re betting you don’t want to be the reason he wakes. 

“Can I, um, talk to you about something?” You fidget, avoiding eye contact with the suspicious mother. 

Nico glances aside. “What do you wanna talk about?” Then he returns to his game, though you know he’s listening.

“Just… stuff.” You instantly regret the vague phrasing as both the mother’s and Nico’s eyes widen. “Not weird stuff! Uhh… games, you know, like you were saying back when we were both on solid ground.” Embarrassed, you turn away and clasp your hands at your navel. “Please? I would really like to speak with you.” 

When you look at him again, he’s practically scrambling to pack his laptop up. “Excuse me, please,” he whispers to the mother, who looks scandalized by his actions as he clambers over her son and her person. Wow, he sure moves fast. Was it something you said? You played up your demureness a little bit, sure, but only because you know Nico’s very responsive to cute and shy girls. Which is actually what you are, now that you think about it. The daydream still has its tight grip on your mind, steering your thoughts. It’s making you feel a bit more muddled and bold than usual, which is probably why you came up with such a terrible plan. 

Nico steps out into the aisle with you and wow you forgot how tall he is. Good thing the ceiling is so high. 

“Hey,” he says with a soft smile. “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it all here. Where to, man?” 

“Right,” you respond with a squeak, pausing for a second to puzzle over his use of the term “man”. He usually uses it affectionately, you think, and you do too, but it’s a bit soon to be calling each other buddies. You literally just met a few hours ago. “Um…”

You spot the ideal place, and pray that it’s empty. You might just be able to kill two birds with one stone. “Let’s go in there,” you murmur, nodding your head in the direction you want to go. 

On a whim you take his wrist, which he thankfully doesn’t object to, and pull him towards the back of the plane. You make sure to walk normally, so as not to draw attention to you or your captive. Rows of people pass by, each less interested in where you’re going than the last. 

Finally, after the very last row, you stop in front of a tiny cubicle. 

“In here.” You let go of Nico and draw open the folding door, gesturing inside. “After you.” 

Nico peers into the cubicle doubtfully. There’s a small wash basin, a mirror, and an even smaller toilet. 

“You wanna talk… in the bathroom?” 

There’s barely enough room in there for one person, let alone two, but you don’t know where else can afford you much privacy as you lay out your evil plan. You really don’t want people overhearing you telling this incredibly tall person that he must pretend to be a huge fan of Mark’s in order to steal another famous YouTuber’s t-shirt. Speaking of which, you hope Michael isn’t attempting to look for you. 

“Please, this is really important,” you blurt in a hushed voice, placing your hand on his back to urge him into the cramped space. 

He resists for a second, and turns to you with some concern evident in his knitted brows. His big, bovine eyes study you closely. You flush under the scrutiny and hurry into the potty. He doesn’t follow you. Instead he asks, “You’re not, like, in trouble or anything are you? Are you being harassed or something?” 

You would laugh if you weren’t so sure that would draw attention. You’re not in trouble. You are the trouble. “No, it’s nothing like that, I promise. Please, come in.” You put the toilet seat down and pat its lid. 

Nico finally gives in and ducks his head as he enters the cubicle. He sits where you indicated and you pull the door closed. 

Now you’re alone. With Nico B. In a very tiny toilet stall flying over the Pacific Ocean. 

“Cozy, isn’t it?” he quips, trying to lighten the mood with a joke, which you appreciate. It is extremely cramped, you have to admit. There isn’t an inch between you two, with your back pressed to the door and him leaning as far against the other wall as the room permits. It is sort of uncomfortable, not just in the “you’re totally in my personal space” kind of way, but also in the “there’s an unspoken tension between us” kind of way. You know you have the hots for him and your body is reminding you of that every heartbeat. You can’t tell if he knows that you’re still imagining him naked. But you’re almost certain that he likes the looks of you just on principle. You’re cute, and totally his type, if his video game dating habits are anything to go by. He probably wouldn’t say no if you were to suggest something naughty. 

But first things first. You have a mission for him, if he chooses to accept it.

“So…” you draw out the word slowly, “We meet again.” 

Nico grins and pops one leg over the other, then decides not to do that, because there’s really not enough room to be cocky. Part of his jeans brush against your bare leg, but you purposefully ignore that. Nico does too. “Not by coincidence. You decided the time and place, Agent… um…”

You give him your name, which he repeats while nodding. “Right. Sorry, I should’ve asked you that while we were talking back at the airport. Sometimes I just get really carried away. You know how video games are.”

“I do,” you reply. You forget to ask him his name, and he does not offer it. It is a simple omission, one that you do not think to question. You already know his name, after all. 

“So what are we doing?” Nico doesn’t talk with his hands, so he has them clasped in his lap. Very polite. 

You lick your lips. Boy it’s dry in here. “I’m gonna preface this by saying that what I’m about to ask you may sound kind of crazy.”

Immediately, Nico’s eyes widen, and his smile falters. He opens his mouth to say something, but you cut him off. 

“It’s not anything super weird!” You’re quick to your own defense, even though you know you’re doing it for all of the wrong reasons. Oh well! You’re here now and you’ve gotta see this through. That shirt, and that signature, will be yours. 

“O…kay…” Nico says slowly, and it seems like it’s dawning on him what kind of situation he’s been thrown into. No matter how cute you are, you’re blocking the only exit. But you don’t want to alarm him anymore unnecessarily, so you lay a hand on his knee and pat it to reassure him. He stares at your hand, then up at you. You might’ve just done what you didn’t want to do, so you retract your hand hastily. 

But anyhow, you’ve recaptured his attention. “Right, so, did you happen to notice that Markiplier is on this plane?” 

Nico gasps. “What? Really?” 

Along with Michael Jones, you silently add, though you don’t know if Nico is familiar with Rooster Teeth or Achievement Hunter. You suppose he would’ve commented on your stupid shirt already if he was. Then again, maybe he just doesn’t watch RWBY. 

“Really really,” you confirm, and Nico shakes his head in disbelief and awe. 

“That’s so cool! Is he in first class with you? Did you talk to him?”

You hesitate. Setting up the story now is crucial. You don’t want to mess this up. “I… well, I mean, I’m such a big fan of his. It’s super easy to get so nervous around celebrities that you just freeze up, y’know? Plus, he’s so pretty that I’m afraid I would make a fool of myself if I just stood there and gibbered at him.” Nico’s uneasiness is all but forgotten as he nods in understanding. “I guess if I had the opportunity to meet someone I really admired, I’d get tongue-tied too! But I think if we had something in common we’d get along right away. I mean, I certainly can talk.” 

He sure can, you agree. And now for the tricky part. 

“Right. That’s part of the reason why I came to you for help. See, I wanted Mark to sign something for me, but I was just so jumpy that when he asked me if I was a fan of his, I said I wasn’t, and that the t-shirt was for someone else.” 

Nico nods vigorously. He unclasps his hands and makes a reaching movement as if to touch your arm with sympathy, but seems to think better of it and crosses his arms instead. “Ohh, I get it. You want me to pretend—actually, I wouldn’t have to pretend, I like him a lot too—that the shirt is for me.” 

You’re impressed that he picked it up that quickly, and relieved that he seems to be willing to go along with your plan. You’re an outstanding actor, you commend yourself. Just turn up the waterworks a little, and you’ve got them eating out of the palm of your hand. Also it doesn’t hurt that you know Nico is a sucker for sweet, shy girls who are a little bit on the loopy side. 

“So, do we have a deal?” You stick out your hand in front of his face to seal the agreement.

He hesitates for a second. “Wait,” he says, gently batting your hand away, “I kinda want Markiplier’s autograph too. For myself. I mean, when am I gonna get this kind of opportunity again?” 

That’s almost the same thing you thought, except that you hope he doesn’t want to embark on another half-baked scheme of getting yet another stranger to pose as a fan. Wouldn’t it be totally bonkers if this somehow went full stupid circle and Nico decided that Michael would be a perfect solution? But that would never happen! It’s too dumb. 

You don’t think too hard before you suggest what Mark might sign for him. “How about your laptop,” you deadpan. 

Nico instantly lights up. “That’s a cool idea! I could probably preserve the autograph with tape or something too… wow, you’re a really quick thinker!” 

Good thing Michael told you to stay in school, you say silently to yourself with a critically-averted eyeroll.

Outwardly, you smile and press your hands to your face, pushing up your cheeks in what you hope is a cute manner. Incredibly, Nico seems to melt into a puddle of goo, and you see something subtle change in his expression. He looks like he’s trying very hard not to say ‘aww’ and giggle at your adorable antics. Little does he know that you’re a fool and a fiend. You do feel slightly bad for tricking him (for lying to everybody, really), but at the same time you’re deliberately pushing yourself past the point of caring. Everything you’re doing is for your sake, and you might be selfish and a cheat and a liar, but damn does it make you feel good. For the time being, anyway. 

“Alright, I think we have a deal now,” you say tentatively, and you thrust out your hand once more for Nico to take. 

“Agreed,” Nico replies, and he shakes your hand without further ado. 

The palm of his hand is warm even in the cool air of the bathroom. It is also slightly sweaty. The firm grip reminds you that you wanted to ask him something else, and by the way the previous conversation has so excellently proceeded, you think he might be inclined to acquiesce to your request. 

You lick your lips, which has the intended effect of Nico’s gaze snapping to them. The tension you had been feeling, and the nervous heartbeats which had been punctuating your talk with him, begin to quicken. 

Instead of letting his hand fall when the handshake is over, you slide your hand against his, fingers toward the ceiling, and intertwine all of them together. Now you’re holding hands with this man whom you’ve only seen through a screen. Touching him now, in the soft glow of this intimate space, feels like the beginning of a dream. Your outer limbs tingle, your breathing grows shallow, and your heart is thudding so hard you feel a pulse in your throat and stomach at the same time. You know that when you or he speaks next, it will either be the end or the start of something which you will not have any control over. 

Nico, for his part, seems to have gone stock still. His face has paled, though there’s a red hue coloring his throat and ears. There’s more wetness from his palm. You don’t particularly want to kiss such a sweaty hand, but you’ll do it. Nico’s eyes are the only thing that’s moving. First to your interlocked hands, then to your face, your lips, your hair, your breasts… he looks you all over before a split second glace down at himself, and then towards the ceiling in what might be a prayer. 

“Kiss me.” You meant to say it in a deep, commanding voice, but it comes out softer and less certain than you had intended. You’re not a wimp, you tell yourself. You’re just playing more into the mood. Nico likes soft and sweet. 

He stiffens, and now he crosses his legs, shoe scraping your knee in the process, even though there is no more room than before. If anything, the space seems to have shrunk around you. 

“How… how old are you?” Nico croaks in a dry voice, and he coughs to clear his throat before you answer.

“Great, just great. At least you’re not ten years younger than me. That’d be a real… um… something,” he mumbles, squeezing your hand. Then he attempts to let you go. “Look, I’m sorry, but this isn’t really feasible for me. I mean, we’re in an airplane toilet stall, for god’s sake.” 

You’re not exactly crushed, but you do think you heart sinks to the pit of your stomach. Your fingernails dig into his hand, and he winces. Hot and sarcastic humor steams from your throat. “So if we were in an island cabana somewhere, you’d take me on your knees?”

The flush at Nico’s throat and ears spreads to his cheeks. “Whoa now, you never said— ” 

“I never did. What are you thinking?” you ask, playful tone masking your regret. What are you thinking? You’re so desperate. Pathetic. 

“I—I think I’d better get out of here. You’re very nice, and cute, but this isn’t the time or place to be doing anything that you’re implying. I will help you get that autograph though. And maybe we can chat once we arrive in Australia?” 

You raise your eyebrows. “So you’re willing to canoodle in an airport bathroom, not an airplane bathroom.” 

Nico splutters. “No, no, no more bathrooms! And I don’t want to ‘canoodle’ with you! I barely even know you! We had like one conversation about video games. I think you’re pretty and smart and funny, but I’m not gonna just jump on you like an animal! That’s wrong!”

You think back to his let’s plays. He (along with pretty much the entire let’s play community) doesn’t have any qualms about using fictional women as sexual objects. You’d have to count on several hands and feet just how many times he’s referred to anime ladies exclusively by their sexual attributes, and how much he’d like to fondle those attributes. You’re not sure how experienced he is with real women, but you’re willing to bet that it’s not much. You can’t think of a single time when Nico’s mentioned a girlfriend or even a one-night stand on camera. Compared to Michael, who is married, and Mark, whom you’re sure has had many, many girlfriends and probably has a current girlfriend and gets offers to be sucked hourly besides by random internet denizens, Nico is a little baby. Why doesn’t he want this right now? 

Though to be honest, you’re less and less certain that you want this for yourself. But Nico is still hiding something, and you at least want more than a promise before you shut the door on this conversation for a while. You stare at the handshake that turned into a hand hold that you’ve not yet let go. 

“Is it wrong of me to ask if you would kiss me still? It doesn’t have to go further than that, if you don’t want it to.” You lower your lashes, pretending bashfulness, but really you’re concentrating on his crotch. The way he crossed his legs so suddenly has you wondering if there’s something stirring there that he wants to keep under wraps. 

He heaves a long-suffering sigh. You can tell you’re pushing him farther than he wants to go, but he’s already told you that he’s attracted to you. He can say no if he wants to, but if he says yes… kissing him will seal another deal that you’re working on by yourself. 

“Fine,” Nico mutters. “But only one. And, um, no tongue.” 

You almost laugh. You doubt if Nico has ever had a French kiss in his life. 

“Alright,” you say, and you lean forward, bracing your weight on the wall Nico’s pressed against. You’re still holding hands too, which is a good sign that he isn’t as eager to abandon your proposition as you initially thought he was. It seems his problem with the kiss stemmed from moral propriety; concern for himself (and possibly for you) with toeing an invisible, but quite palpable, line. But he made it sound like he wanted to get to know you better in the future, if his earlier words hold any water. This kiss is a promise made real. 

Nico is coming towards you too, pulling you by the hand, and suddenly you’re kissing him. The moment your lips meet you feel your heart jump back into a healthy rhythm. Your stomach flutters with something light and sweet. You move your non-occupied hand from the wall to his chest, and it’s amazing that you can feel the hard beats knocking against the cavity. He’s as excited as you are, maybe even more so, since from his perspective this was so unexpected. It isn’t a chaste kiss, nor is it a single one. You pull back and come in again and again, and Nico’s eating it up. You stray to the corner of his mouth, his cheek, and even tease that you’re going to move to his neck. You haven’t opened your mouth yet to lick, but you think Nico might want your tongue inside him… inside his mouth, you mean… in a minute. 

You are by no means a good kisser, but you’ve read enough fanfic to know how to be soft and gentle, how to build momentum, and how to tell when your partner is having a good time. Little moans start to float around on the air, thickening the tension. Encouraged, you begin to lower your hand from Nico’s heart… to his head. 

His legs are still crossed, but they’re not tightly clenched together, as he’s more focused on different body parts right now. You can’t sense where his other hand is, but it’s not on you. It might just be gripping the toilet seat or something, but you don’t dare to open your eyes to check. You’re doing all of this blind. You slip your fingers between his legs, and feel around. It’s not difficult to discover what you’re searching for. You hesitate for a second, thinking about if you really, truly want this. Then Nico starts to open his mouth and nibble your bottom lip. Reflexively, you squeeze the bulge. 

Immediately Nico breaks away from you, choking on air. He lets go of your hand too, and you take a step back. Well, maybe like a quarter of a step back. It’s still super tight in here. 

“Oops,” you mumble.

“H-hey, I said nothing more than a kiss,” he stutters, flush deepening. It seems as though it’s spreading to his chest, but you can’t quite see down the high collar of his polo. You watch the blood move with dispassionate quiet.

“Sorry,” you whisper, conscious of your volume now that the moans have drained away. “I was getting kind of wrapped up in it. You seemed to be enjoying it too.” You glance deliberately at his groin, which looks… swollen, to say the least, even though he’s still crossing his legs. Nico notices and places his hands over himself, glaring at you. 

“I can’t help that! I’m sensitive.” 

Something about that specific phrasing makes you wonder. “Wait, are you saying that you…” 

Nico’s eyes pop. “No! Not like that. And anyway, it’s just a little bit.”

You stare at him, embarrassed that he’s embarrassed. You’ve never made anyone cream their jeans before. And you still haven’t, if he’s telling the truth. Maybe it was just pre-cum or something. And the reason he’s so sensitive is probably because he’s not used to this kind of stimulation. Not that you are either, but you don’t even think you’re wet. You kind of want to stick a finger down there to see, but you don’t think doing that in front of Nico will flip this situation in your favor.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, with more sincerity this time. “I shouldn’t have grabbed you without asking if you were okay with it. You’re clearly not.”

Nico nods, appreciating your apology. “Thanks. Like I said, I’m happy to talk with you more, but going further than kissing at this point… I mean, shouldn’t we get to know each other better?” 

You nod back, but you’re not happy about it. You know all about Nico already. He always seems so ready to make a joke about a fictional girl’s sexual availability. You guess that with real people he’s more shy about that kind of thing, though probably no less speculative about their junk. You saw him eyeing your breasts and your bare legs. It’s morality that’s getting in the way, not his interest in your personhood. Still, you don’t feel like arguing with him. You can concede that he’s within his right to deny you anything. That’s what healthy consent is all about! It doesn’t mean that you’re not a little bit miffed about it, though. Who knew that, with his seemingly endless sex drive on camera, Nico would be so touchy about it in real life? Maybe you don’t know everything about him, after all. 

“You’re still going to help me with Mark’s autograph, right?” 

“Oh absolutely,” Nico answers, adjusting his pants and not quite meeting you in the eye, “But, and this just occurred to me, if you’re confident enough to go about kissing strangers in toilet stalls, why can’t you do the same thing with Markiplier?” 

‘Because he’s a bigger star than you. I’m not prepared for him yet. I still love you, Nico, but Mark… Mark will probably be tougher to crack.’ 

These sentiments flash through your mind in an instant, and you do not state any of them aloud. Doing so would end your relationship with Nico right then and there, you know. You need to be patient, to build trust! Even if you’re a dirty, filthy liar to the core. 

You attempt to catch Nico’s gaze, but he’s not looking at you, and is still concerned about his pants. You’re not sure, but you think he might be massaging himself? What the heck is he doing? 

“Mark’s a celebrity,” you say quietly, “He has a girlfriend and he’s not going to cheat on her with some fan, no matter how confidently that fan presents themself. And it would be stupid to think like that. You… you’re a regular person. I don’t normally do these things either, but I… I like you. I thought that we could have a good time.” 

Now he glances at you, possibly taken aback by your comment that he’s a regular person (which he isn’t, but he doesn’t even have over 100,000 subscribers at this point), and that you’ve implied you want to sleep with Mark (making Nico a second (or third) choice), but quickly turns his attention back to his crotch. You definitely think he’s up to something, but he’s leaning over to block your view. If he’s too horny to stop jerking off, you must’ve really gotten to him. Despite his preoccupation with his cock, Nico responds to you. His tone is more flirtatious now, not as angry. “Oh yeah? You couldn’t wait so you thought it would be a good idea to hole up in here and dick around?”

You smile, though he doesn’t see it. “Yes. You’re irresistible. I couldn’t get your opinions on Dangan Ronpa out of my head, so I had to contrive a ridiculous scenario to have you. I’m not even a fan of Markiplier. I made the whole thing up.” 

This gets his attention, and he stops rubbing himself long enough to gasp at you. “Wait, really?” 

Now you’re really struggling to hold in your sarcasm, but you keep it cool. “No, you ding-dong. But I do like you. And it was less that I was feeling bold than I was kinda… well, it just happened, you know. I just made the move because I wanted to. Sorry if it freaked you out.” You lace your fingers behind your back, tilting your head bashfully to fixate on the floor tiles instead of him. You hope you’re doing this whole “overmodest virgin” thing correctly.

Nico nods thoughtfully, and finally takes his hands off of his groin. It seems like he’s calmed down. You think maybe he’s going to reach out to comfort you again, but instead he says, “Hey, it’s okay. I’m glad you did, actually! This sort of stuff like never happens to me! Feels like I’m in a sexy romance novel.” You both laugh, and you shake your head as if to dismiss the notion that there is any sort of elaborate plot going on here. You need him to believe this is real if you’re going to get anywhere with your scheme. Not that you didn’t enjoy kissing him too! You’re very relieved that it worked out not to be as awkward and weird as you were imagining. Well, maybe that’s not true. But the good news is that Nico seems to want you just as much as you want him! Now you only need to convince two other people…

With the deal done, you tell Nico that you’re going to exit the restroom by yourself and book it back to first class. He should wait a few minutes before returning to his own seat, you say. It’ll make everything look less suspicious. Nico points out that you both went into the stall at the same time, but you counter with that not being as big of a deal because no one was paying any attention to the back of the plane. There hadn’t even been any stewards sorting beverages or whatever in their little nook behind the bathroom. He looks like he wants to further argue the point, but you shush him with a finger to his lips, which you’re pleased to see he looks startled by. Then you leave, promising to return with Mark whenever you’re able to. 

On your way towards the front, you pass the mother and son who are sharing Nico’s row. They don’t spare you as much as a side-eye. In fact, no one seems to be particularly troubled that you’re up and about while the seat-belt sign is still blazing brightly above their heads. You can’t be too cautious though, so you continue to slink along until you reach the curtains that promise full safety and security. You pass Michael again, and he seems as oblivious to you as the first time you went by. The thought that he’s forgotten all about your deal irks you, but you can’t go over and confront him about it. Actually, if you’re going to have your cake and eat it too, you probably shouldn’t speak to him again for the remainder of the flight. Doing so would be too risky. Besides, you’re gonna have his shirt, so what more do you need, really? You can just pretend he gave it to you as a friend. You’re very good at pretending. 

Even so, as you enter first class once again and draw the curtain closed behind you, you can’t help feeling like you want something more… something like what just happened with Nico. You were improvising then, too, but there was real heat and emotion driving your touches and kisses. It wasn’t one-sided either! It felt good. You want to feel that with Michael, and possibly with Mark too. Maybe before you bring Mark to Nico, you’ll lead Michael to the center of your heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the movie Castaway, and the "stranded on an island" genre in general. I read at least one or two books about it in school, and I wish there were more! There's something so raw and pure about it. It's a terrifying thought, sure, but it's an amazing concept to explore.


End file.
